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Harpefs Magazine 



Volume 223 

July 1961 December 1961 



Harper's Magazine 



Volume 223 • July 1961 . . . December 1961 
Actual titles are in quotations; subject matter in capital type. 

"Aborigine, The Invisible" — Eu- 
gene Burdick, Sept. 69 
Advertising, Product-less, Oct. 30 


Advertising, Oct. 30 

"Canada, Culture-Struck," Aug. 16 

"Car for Sale," Nov. 26 

"Case of the Vanishing Product," Oct. 

Catalogues, Trade, Oct. 32 
Fanny, Filming of, July 14 
"Invasion of Marseilles," July 14 
"Monk Talk," Sept. 21 
"Throwaways, Precious," Oct. 32 
"You Tell Them, Pop — You've Got 

the Vox," Dec. 20 
Yuletide Greetings, Dec. 22 

Agency for International De- 
velopment, Nov. 12 

"America Under Pressure" — Adlai 
E. Stevenson, Aug. 21 


"Ball Park, How Not to Build A," 

Aug. 2.5 
"Chicago Could Be Proud of. What," 

Dec. 34 
"Lincoln Center, Culture Monopoly 

at," Oct. 82 
"New Vision in Architecture," July 73 

"Art and Society" — Kenneth C^lark, 

Aug. 74 
"Art of Photography, On the" — 

Henri Cartier-Bresson, Nov. 73 


"Art and Society," Aug. 74 

"Art Books," Dec. 87 

"Art of Photography," Nov. 73 

"Feifier, Jules, and the Almost-in- 

Group," Sept. 58 
Lincoln Center, Oct. 82 
Music, See also 
Theatre, See also 
Writing and Publishing, See also 

Auchincloss, Louis — The Master 
Journalist of American Fiction, 
Nov. 124 

Australian Aborigine, Sept. 69 


"Car for Sale," Nov. 26 

Baby, Yvonne — Henri Cartier-Bres- 
son on Art of Photography, Nov. 

"Ball Park, How Not to Build A" 
— Allan Temko, Aug. 25 

Bart, Peter B. - A W^arning to Wall 
Street Amateurs, July 21 

Barthelmc, Donald— The Case of the 
Vanishing Product, Oct. 30 

Begonia Belle, S. S., Oct. 80 
"Bernstein, Leonard, the American 
Offenbach?" — Disctis, Sept. 104 
Birch Society, The John, Oct. 48 
"Bird on the Mesa, A" — William 

Eastlake, Oct. 57 
Birth Control in India, Nov. 79 
Blind River, Canada, Sept. 81 
"Blocked Feed, A" — Nigel Dennis, 

Dec. 79 
Bloom, Murray Teigh — Your Un- 
known Heirs, Aug. 29 
Boats, Old River, Oct. 80 
Bodsworth, Fred — Canada's Luxury 
Ghost Town, Sept. 81 


"Books in Brief" — Katherine Gauss 
Jackson, July 99; Aug. 91; Sept. 
101; Oct. Ill; Dec. 102 

Lewis, Sinclair, Review of Mark 
Schorer's Bioc.rai'HV of, Nov. 124 

"New Books "— Paul Pickrel, July 91; 
Stanley Kiuiitz, Aug. 86; Irving 
Kristol, Sept. 96; Alfred Kazin, Oct. 
104; Paul Pickrel, Nov. 109; Louis 
Auchincloss, Nov. 124; Leo Stein- 
berg, Dec. 87 

"Precious Throwaways," Oct. 32 

Borgenicht, Miriam —Teachers Col- 
lege: An Extinct Volcano, July 82 

Boroff, David — Eager Swarthmore, 
Oct. 139 

Boyd, Robin— The New Vision in 
Architecture, July 73 

Bullard, W. E. — Guinean Diary, 
Dec. 69 ' 

Burdick, Eugene— The Invisible 
Aborigine, Sept. 69 


"Kennedy's Economists, " Sept. 25 
"Money Bait," Sept. 10 
"Private Eye to Industry, " Nov. 61 
"Strange Romance Between John L. 
Lewis and Cyrus Eaton," Dec. 25 

Cahn, Edmond — How to Destroy 
the Churches, Nov. 33 

Caldwell, Nat and Gene S. Graham 
— Strange Romance Between Cy- 
rus L. Eaton and John L. Lewis, 
Dec. 25 


"Canada's Luxury (ihost lown," 

Sept. 81 
"C;ullurc-Struck Canada." Aug. 16 
"Quebec's Revolt Against the Cath- 
olic Schools," July 53 

"CIanada's Luxury' (iiiosi Town" — 
Fred BodswortiL Sept. 81 

Candlestick Park. San Francisco, 
Aug. 25 

"Car for Sale"— J. \. Maxtone 
Graham, Nov. 26 

Carleton, William G. — Cult of Per- 
sonality Comes to the White 
House, Dec. 63 

"Cartier-Bresson, Henri, on the 
Art of Photography" — Yvonne 
Baby, Nov. 73 

"Case of the Vanishing Product" 

— Donald Barthelme, Oct. 30 
Catalogues, Trade, Oct. 32 
Central Intelligence Agency, Oct. 

Cliapin, Miriam — Quebec's Revolt 

Against the Catholic Schools, July 

Gihapman, John L. — The Uncanny 

World of Plasma Physics, Oct. 64 
Chase, Richard — The New Campus 

Magazines, Oct. 168 
"Chicago Could Be Proud of. 

What" — Elinor Richey, Dec. 34 
Christian Anti-Communism Cru- 
sade, Texas, Oct. 52 
"Christmas List" — John P ischer, 

Dec. 15 
"Churches, How to Destroy the" 

— Edmond Cahn, Nov. 33 
"C.l.A. Mv Escape from the" — 

Hughes Rudd. Oct. 43 
City Center, New York, Oct. 82 
City-Country Living, Problems in, 

Sept. 33 
"City Streets, Violence in the" — 

Jane Jacobs, Sept. 37 
Clark, Kenneth — .Art and Sotiety, 

Aug. 74 
Clarke, .'Krthur C. — I he LIscs of the 

Moon, Dec. 56 
"Cla.ssroom, The Wasted"— Natiian 

Glazer, Oct. 147 
Coal Industry, Dec. 25 
Cold War, Our Present, Aug. 83 
Coleman, Ornetfe, Jazz Player, 

Oct. 69 

Oct. 119-182 

Boroli, Da\id — Eager Swartiunorc, 

"Clhancc What Comes"— Christoplier 

Hoi)son, 177 
Ciiasc, Ridiard— Ihe New Cam])us 

Magazines, 168 
"Classroom, The Wasted" — .Nathan 

(.lazcr, 147 
"C:ommon Predicament. 1 he "— Judy 

Roses, 145 
DeMott, Benjamin— How Iluy 

Might Teach, 153 

DeVree, Charlotte — The Young 

Negro Rebels, 133 
"Eager Swarthmore" — David Boroff . 

"Examination, The" — W. D. Snod- 

grass, 154 
Glazer, Nathan — The Wasted Class- 
room, 147 
"God in the Colleges" — Michael 

Novak, 173 
Hobson, Christopher — Chance What 

Comes, 177 
"How They Might Teach" — Ben- 
jamin DeMott, 153 
Illustrations — David Attie, 120, 131, 
137, 148, 161; Norma-Jean Koplin. 
Jencks, Christopher — The Next 

Thirty Years in the Colleges, 121 
Levine, Milton I. and Maya Pines — 
Sex: The Problem the Colleges 
Evade, 129 
McCorquodale, Marjorie — What 

They'll Die for in Houston, 179 
"Mirage of College Politics"— Philip 

Rieff, 156 
"Negro Rebels, The Young" — Char- 
lotte DeVree, 133 
"New Campus Magazines, The" — 

Richard Chase, 168 
"Next Thirty Years in the Colleges, 

The" — Christopher Jencks, 121 
Novak, Michael — God in the Col- 
leges, 173 
Pines, Maya — Sex: The Problem the 

Colleges Evade, 129 
"Polish Student Life, Notes on" — 

Reuel K. Wilson, 164 
"Politics, The Mirage of College" — 

Philip Rieff, 156 
Rieff, Philip — The Mirage of College 

Politics, 156 
Roses. Judy — The Common Predica- 
ment, 145 
"Sex: The Problem the Colleges 
Evade" — Milton I. Levine and 
Maya Pines, 129 
Snodgrass, W. D. — The Examination, 

"Swarthmore, Eager" — David Boroff, 

"Wasted Classroom, The" — Nathan 

Glazer, 147 
"What They'll Die for in Houston" — 

Marjorie McCorquodale, 179 
Wilson, Rcuel K. — Notes on Polish 

Student Life, 164 
"Young Negro Rebels" — Charlotte 
DeVree, 133 

"Colleges, The Next Thirty Years 
IN the" — Christopher Jencks, Oct. 

"Comeback of the State Depart- 
ment" — Joseph Kraft, Nov. 43 

"Comedy, The Future, If Any, of" 
— James Thurber, Dec. 40 


"Guinean Diary." Dec. 69 

"Polish Student Life, Notes on," Oct. 

Yugoslavia, July 10; Aug. 11 

Conservative Movement in Pol- 
itics, Nov. 98 

Cope, Jack— The Man Who Doubted, 
Aug. 54 

Corke, Hilary— A Psychiatrist's Song, 
Aug. 58 

"Corsica Out of Season" — Wallace 
Stegner, Oct. 76 

Country-City Living, Problems in, 
Sept. 33 


July — Ben Robinson 
August — Charles Goslin 
September — Janet Halverson 
October — Charles Goslin 
November — Martin Rosenzweig 
December — Burt Goldblatt 


"Private Eye to Industry," Nov. 61 
"Violence in the City Streets," Sept. 37 

Cuban Invasion, The, Aug. 83 

"Cult of Personality Comes to 
the White House" — William G. 
Carleton, Dec. 63 

"Culture Monopoly at Lincoln 
Center" — Herbert Kupferberg, 
Oct. 82 

"Culture-Struck Canada" — Russell 
Lynes, Aug. 16 

Defense Secretary Robert Mc- 
Namara, Aug. 41 

de Hartog, Jan — Robinson Crusoe 
in Florida, Aug. 34 

Delius, Funeral of Federick, Nov. 

"Democracy and Its Discontents" 
— Irving Kristol, Sept. 96 

DeMott, Benjamin— The Peace 
Corps' Secret Mission, Sept. 63; 
How They Might Teach, Oct. 153 

Dennis, Nigel— A Blocked Feed, Dec. 

Detergents, Battle with Syn- 
thetic, Nov. 94 

DeVree, Charlotte — The Young 
Negro Rebels, Oct. 133 

Discus — Music in the Round —The 
New Tristan, July 102; Stravinsky 
and Poulenc Conducting, Aug. 94; 
Leonard Bernstein, the American 
Offenbach?, Sept. 104; Bela Bar- 
tok, Hungarian Composer, Oct. 
116; The Illusions of Opera, Nov. 
128; Masterpieces of the Past, Dec. 

Drucker, Peter F. — Plan for Revolu- 
tion in Latin Ainerica, July 31 

"Eager Swarthmore" — David Bor- 
off, Oct. 139 

Eastlake, William— A Bird on the 
Mesa, Oct. 57 


"Christmas List" — John Fischer, Dec. 

"Hamilton, Hopeful Letter to 

Fowler" — John Fischer, Nov. 12 
"Money Bait"— John Fischer, Sept. 

"Point of No Return" — John Fischer. 

July 10 
"Private vs. Public " — Henry E. Wal- 

lich, Oct. 12 
"Yugoslavia, Report on" — John 

Fischer, July 10 
"Yugoslavia's Flirtation with Free 

Enterprise" — John Fischer, Aug. 11 

"Eaton, Cyrus, Strange Romance 
Between John L. Lewis and" — 
Nat Caldwell and Gene S. Graham, 
Dec. 25 


"College Scene." Oct. 119-182 
"Howard University," Nov. 51 
"Quebec's Revolt Against the Cath- 
olic Schools," July 53 
Spare Time Educators, Dec. 15 

Teacher Award, Dec. 19 
"Teachers College," July 82 

Elliot Lake, Canada, Sept. 81 
Engel, Leonard — Why We Don't 

Wipe Out Polio, Sept. 77 
Evans, Rowland — India Experi- 
ments with Sterilization, Nov. 79 
Fanny, Filming of, July 14 
"Feiffer, Jules, and the Almost- 
in-Group" — Julius Novick, Sept. 


"Bird on the Mesa, .\"— William East- 
lake, Oct. 57 

"Blocked Feed, A" — Nigel Dennis, 
Dec. 79 

"In the Company of Runners"— Rich- 
ard Rogin. Nov. 68 

"Man Who Doubted, The" — Jack 
Cope, Aug. 54 

"Mr. Future" — Leo Rosten, Sept. 48 

"Summer Is .Another Country" — 
Christine Weston, July 27 


"New Frontiers of Science," Oct. 42 
"Common Predicament, The," Oct. 

"Dike and the Village. The," Sept. 68 
"Faith for Tough Times?" Sept. 32 
"New Frontiers of Science," Oct. 42 
"Same Johnny," Dec. 62 
"Stolen Visit to the Theatre," Nov. 86 

Fischer, John — Puzzled Report on 
Yugoslavia, July 10; Yugoslavia's 
Flirtation with Free Enterprise, 
Aug. 11; Money Bait, Sept. 10; 
Hopeful Letter to Fowler Hamil- 
ton, Nov. 12; Christmas List, Dec. 

"Florida, Robinson Crusoe in" — 
Jan de Hartog, Aug. 34 

"Footnote-and-Mouth Disease" — 
Helene Hanff, July 58 

Foreign-Aid Program, Nov. 12 


"Canada, Culture-Struck," Aug. 16 

"Canada's Luxury Ghost Town," 
Sept. 81 

"Corsica Out of Season." Oct. 76 

Fanny, Filming of, July 14 

"Guinean Diary," Dec. 69 

"Hamilton, Hopeful Letter to 
Fowler," Nov. 12 

Honduras, Aug. 63 

"India, Galbraith in, " Dec. 46 

"India Experiments with Steriliza- 
tion," Nov. 79 

"Latin America, Plan for Revolution 
in," July 31 

"National Talent for Offending 
People, Our," Aug. 63 

"Polish Student Life. Notes on," Oct. 

"Quebec's Revolt Against the Cath- 
olic Schools," July 53 

"State Department, Comeback of," 
Nov. 43 

Yugoslavia, July 10, .^ug. II 


Fanny, Filming of, July 21 

"Future, If Any, of Comedy, The" 
— James Thurber, Dec. 40 

"Galbraith in India"— Kusum Nair, 
Dec. 46 

"Game of Words, The " — Louis B. 
Salomon, Nov. 40 

Giants' Baseball Park, Aug. 25 

Glazer, Nathan —The Wasted Class- 
room, Oct. 147 

"God in the Colleges" — Michael 
Novak, Oct. 173 

"Good Old Summertime" — William 
S. White, Aug. 83 


"America Under Pressure," Aug. 21 
"C.I.A., My Escape from the," Oct. 43 
"Cult of Personality Comes to the 

White House," Dec. 63 
"Galbraith in India." Dec. 46 
"Good Old Summertime, The," .Aug. 

"Hamilton. Hopeful Letter to 

Fowler," Nov. 12 
"Houston's Superpatriots." Oct. 48 
"Kennedy Back in the Senate, How 

to Put." Dec. 84 
Kennedy s Cabinet, Sept. 92 
"Kennedy's Economists," Sept. 25 
"Lady from Oregon," Oct. 98 
"Latin America, Plan for Revoliuion 

in," July 31 
"McXamara and His Enemies," -Aug. 

"Mirage of College Politics," Oct. 1.56 
"New Irresponsibles, The," Nov. 98 
"New York Is Different," July 39 
"Our National Talent for Offending 

People, " -Aug. 63 
"Peace Corps' Secret Mission," Sept. 

"Private vs. Public Spending," Oct. 12 
"State Department, Comeback of, ' 

Nov. 43 
Surrogate's Court, Operation of, Aug. 

Taxpayer's Dilemma, .Aug. 71 
"\Velfare Mess, a \Vav Out of the," 
Oct. 37 

Graham, Gene S. and Nat Caldwell 

—The Strange Romance Between 

Cyrus Eaton and John L. Lewis, 

Dec. 25 
Graves, Robert — Burn It:, Dec. 49 
"GuiNEAN Diary" — W. E. Bullard, 

Dec. 69 
Halliday, Norman— The Proper 

Tool Will Do the Job, Oct. 80 
Hanff, Helene— The Footnote-and- 

Mouth Disease, July 58 
"Heirs, Your Unknown "— Murray 

Teigh Bloom, Aug. 29 
"Hinds, The Search for \Villiam 

E." — Walter Prescott \Vebb, Julv 

July 62; Nov. 21 
History Today, Writing of, Oct. 

Hobson, Christopher — Chance What 

Comes, Oct. 177 
Holland, Henrietta Fort — Our 

Friends the Russians, Oct. 97 
Honduras, The "Ugly American" 

IN, Aug. 63 
"Houston, What They'll Die for 

in"— Marjorie K. McCorquodale, 

Oct. 179 
"Houston's Superpatriots" — Willie 

Morris, Oct. 48 
"How Not to Build a Ball Park" 

— Allan Temko, .Aug. 25 
"How They Might Teach ' — Ben- 
jamin DeMott, Oct. 153 
"How to Destroy the Churches" — 

Edmond Cahn, Nov. 33 
"How to Play the Unemployment- 
Insurance Game" — Seth Levine, 

Aug. 49 

"Howard University"— Milton 

Viorst, Nov. 51 
Howarth. David — The Last Summer, 

Nov. 89 
Hughes, Ted — Her Husband, Dec. 

Hunt, Morton M. — Private Eye to 

Industry, Nov. 61 


-Attie, David — Photographs for Col- 
lege Scene. Oct. 119-181 
Banbery, Frederick E. — The Man 

Who Doubted, .Aug. 54 
Berry, Bill — How to Play the Un- 

emplovment-Insurance Game, Aug. 

Bodecker. N. M. — .After Hours, Julv 

14; Aug. 16; Sept. 21; Oct. 30; Nov. 

26; Dec. 20; .A Matter of Motive. 

Aug. 71 
Buonpastore, Tony— The Last Sum- 
mer, Nov. 89 
Burris, Burmah— On Both Your 

Houses, Sept. 33 
Campbell, Judy — Footnote-and- 

Mouth Disease, July 58 
Cartier-Bresson, Henri — On the .Art 

of Photography, Nov. 73 
Enos, Randall — Teachers College, 

July 82 
Feelings, Thomas — Summer is .An- 
other Country, July 27 
Feiffer, Jules — Cartoon Strip, Sept. 62 
Ferro. Walter — Howard University, 

Nov. 51 
Fischer, Ed — Cartoon: Beggar V'io- 

linist, July 102 
Frankfort, Charles — The Games of 

AVords, Nov. 40 
Goldblatt, Burt — The "New Thing " 

in Jazz, Oct. 69 
Goodman, Willard — Quebec's Revolt 

.Against the Catholic Schools, Jidv 

Goro, Fritz — Photographs of the 

Australian Aborigine, Sept. 69 
Koplin, Norma-Jean — Mr. Future, 

Sept. 48; The Examination, Oct. 

154; Galljraitli of India, Dec. 46 
Martin. Charles E. — New York Is 

Different. July 39 
Osborn. Roller t — Up to Our Necks 

in Soft \Vhite Suds, Nov. 94 
Papin, Joseph — Violence in the City 

Streets. Sept. 37 
Perlin, Bernard — Corsica Out of Sea- 
son, Oct. 76 
Rosenblum, Richard — Pa\ anne for a 

Dead Doll, Dec. 33 
Rothkin. Marlene — Our National 

Talent for Offending People, Aug. 

Simon, Christopher — My Escape from 

the C.I.A. , Oct. 43 
Summers, Leo Ramon — Guinean 

Diary, Dec. 69; .A Blocked Feed. 

Dec. 79 
Thurber, James —The Future. If Any. 

of Comedy, Dec. 40 
^^"alker. Gil — Robinson Crusoe in 

Florida, -Aug. 34; .A Bird on the 

Mesa, Oct. 57; The Proper Tool 

Will Do the Job, Oct. 80 
Young, Ed — In the Company of Run- 
ners, Nov. 68 

"In the Company of Runners" — 
Richard Rogin, Nov. 68 

"India Experiments with Steriliza- 
tion"— Rowland Evans, Nov. 79 

"India, Galbraith in" — Kusum Nair, 
Dec. 46 

Industry, Lure to, Sept. 10 

"Industry, Private Eve to" — Morton 

M. Hunt, Nov. 61^ 
Internal Revenue Department, Aug. 

"Invisible .Aborigine, The" — Eu- 
gene Burdick, Sept. 69 
Jackson, Katherine Gauss — Books in 

Brief, July 99; Aug. 91; Sept. 101; 

Oct. HI; Dec. 102 
Jacobs, Jane —Violence in the City 

Streets, Sept. 37 
"Jaspan, Norman: Private Eye to 

Industry" — Morton M. Hunt, 

Nov. 61 
"Jazz, 'The New Thing' in"— Mar- 
tin Williams, Oct. 69 
"Jazz Notes"— Eric Larrabee, Julv 

104; Aug. 95; Sept. 105; Oct. 118; 

Nov. 133; Dec. 112 
Jencks, Christopher — The Next 

Thirty Years in the Colleges, Oct. 

Kazin, .\lfred — Notes on the W'riting 

of History Today, Oct. 104 

Kennedy, President John F. 

"Good Old Summertime," Aug. 83 
"Kennedy Back in the Senate, How 

to Put!" Dec. 84 
"Kennedy's Economists," Sept. 25 
"Twelve at Table," Sept. 92 

Kotlowitz, Robert — Monk Talk, 

Sept. 21 
Kraft, Joseph — McNamara and His 

Enemies, Aug. 41; Comeback of 

the State Dept., Nov. 43 
Krauss, Ruth —Variations on a Leica 

Form, Oct. 88 
Kristol, Irving — Democracy and Its 

Discontents, Sept. 96 
Kunitz, Stanley — Some Poets of the 

Year, .Aug. 86 
Rupferberg, Herbert — Culture Mo- 
nopoly at Lincoln Center, Oct. 82 


"How to Play the Unemployment- 
Insurance Game," .Aug. 49 

"Lady from Oregon ' — William S. 
\Vhite. Oct. 98 

Laing, Dilys — The Husking, Sept. 67 

Language, The Vagaries of, Nov. 

Larrabee, Eric— Jazz Notes, July 104; 
Aug. 95; Sept. 105; Oct. 118; Nov. 
133; Dec. 112 

"Last Summer, The" — David Ho- 
warth, Nov. 89 

"Latin-.4merica, a Plan for Revo- 
lution in"— Peter F. Drucker, July 


"Yoiir Unknown Heirs," -Aug. 29 

LETTERS July 4; .Aug. 6; Sept. 4; 

Oct. 6; Nov. 4; Dec. 4 

Levertov, Denise— The Thread, 
Sept. 80 

Levine, Milton I. — Sex: The Prob- 
lem the Colleges Evade, Oct. 1 29 

Levine, Seth — How to Play the Un- 
employment- 1 nsurancc Game, 
Aug. 49 

"Lewis, John L. and Cyrus Eaton, 
Strange Romance Between" — 
Nat Caldwell and Gene S. Graham, 
Dec. 25 

Lincoln Center for the Perform- 
ing Arts, Oct. 82 

Logan, Joshua — My Invasion of 
Marseilles, July 14 

Lowell, Robert — Free Version ol 
Seven Poems by Boris Pasternak, 
Sept. 44 

Lynes, Russell — Culture-Struck Can- 
ada, Aug. 16; Trade Catalogues, 
Oct. 32 ' 

"Magazines, The New Campus" — 
Richard Chase, Oct. 168 

"Man Who Doubted, The" — Jack 
Cope, Aug. 54 

Maryland Restaurant Keepers, 
Dec. 16 

"Master Journalist of American 
Fiction"— Louis Audiindoss, Nov. 

"Matter of Motive, A" — John I). 
Rosenberg, Aug. 71 

Maxtone Graham, J. A. — (lar lor 
Sale, Nov. 26 

May, Edgar — A Way Out ol ihc Wel- 
fare Mess. Oct. 37 

McCarthy, Mary -"Realism" in the 
American liieatre, July 45 

McCorquodale, Marjorie K. — What 
rhcv'll Die lor in Houston, Oct. 
179 ' 

"McNamara and His Enemies" — 
Joseph Kraft, Aug. 4 1 


Dclcrgenls. Syntlictic, Nov. 94 
"India Exijeriincnts with Stciili/a- 

lion," Nov. 79 
"Polio, Why \A'e Don't Wipe Out," 

Sept. 77 

Menashe, Samuel —Voyage, Aug. 77 

"Mirage of College Politics, The" 
- Philip Riefit, Oct. 156 

"Money Bait" — John Fischer, Sept. 

"Monk Talk" — Robert Kotlowit/, 
Sept. 21 

"Moon, The Uses of the" — .Arthur 
C. Clarke, Dec. 56 

Morris, Willie — Houston's Super- 
patriots, Oct. 48 


"My Invasion of Marseilles, " July 14 

"Mr. Future"— Leo Rosten, Sept. 48 


"Jazz Notes," July 104; Aug. 95; Sept. 

104; Oct. 118; Nov. 133; Dec. 112 
"Jazz, 'The New Thing' in," Oct. 69 
"Monk Talk," Sept. 21; Oct. 70 
"Music in the Round, " July 102; .^ug. 

94; Sept. 104; Oct. 116;' Nov. 128; 

Dec. 109 

"My Escape from the C.LA." — 

Hughes Rudd, Oct. 43 
"My Invasion of Marseilles" — 

Joshua Logan, July 14 
Nair, Kusum — Dike and the Village, 

Sept. 68; Galbraith in India, Dec. 

Nash, Ogden — Pavanne for a Dead 

Doll, Dec. 33 

"National Talent for Offending 
People, Our"— D. H. Radler, Aug. 


"Howard University, " Nov. 51 
"Young Negro Rebels," Oct. 133 

Nemerov, Howard— The Daily 

Globe, Nov. 39 
Neuberger, Sen. Maurine, Oct. 98 


".'\rt Books" — Leo Steinberg, Dec. 87 

"Democracy and Its Discontents " — 
Irving Kristol, Sept. 96 

"Fiction, Non-Fiction, Pseudo-Fic- 
tion" — Paul Pickrel, Nov. 109 

"History Today, Notes on the Writing 
of" -Alfred Kazin, Oct. 104 

"Poets of the Year, Some " — Stanley 
Kimit/, Aug. 86 

"Summer Fiction " — Paul Piekrel, 
July 91 

"New Campus Magazines"— Richard 
Chase, Oct. 164 

"New Irresponsibles, The" — Wil- 
liam S. White, Nov. 98 

" 'New I hing' in Jazz, The"— Mar- 
tin Williams, Oct. 69 

"New Vision in .Architecture, Fhe ' 

— Robin Boyd, July 73 

"New York City and the Aris" Oct. 

"New York Is Different" — Marion 
K. Sanders, July 39 

New York Politics, July 39 

"Next Thirty Years in the Col- 
leges, The" — Christopher Jencks, 
Oct. 121 

"Notes on Polish Student Life" — 
Rcuel K. Wilson, Oct. 164 

"NorES on the Writing of History 
Today" — .Alfred Kazin, Oct. 104 

Novak, Michael — God in the Col- 
leges, Oct. 173 

Novick, Julius— Jules Feiffer and the 
Almost-in-Group, Sept. 58 

"Offending People, Our National 
Talent for" — D. H. Radler, .Aug. 

"Old Junior's Progress" — William 
S. White, July 88 

"On Both Your Houses" — Sylvia 
Wright, Sept. 33 

"Oregon, The Lady from" — Wil- 
liam S. White, Oct. 98 

"Our National Talent for Of- 
fending People" — D. H. Radler, 
Aug. 63 

Pasternak, Boris — Seven Poems, 
Sept. 44 

"Peace Corps' Secret Mission, The" 

— Benjamin DeMott, Sept. 63 


Bartok, Bela, Composer, Oct. 116 
Bowles, Chester, State Dept., Nov. 48 
Caron, Leslie, .Actress, July 14 
Coleman, Ornette, Jazz Player, Oct. 69 
Delius, Frederick, Composer, Nov. 89 
Dillon, Douglas, Secretary of Treas- 
ury. .Sept. 25 
Eaton, Cyrus, Utility Magnate, Dec. 

Ernst, Morris, Lawyer, Dec. 19 
Feiffer, Jules, Cartoonist, Sept. 58 
Friedan, Betty, Educator, Dec. 15 
Galbraith, J. Kenneth, .Ambassador to 
India, Dec. 46 

Hamilton, Fowler, Director Foreign 
Aid, Nov. 12 

Heller, Walter W., Council Economic 
Advisors, Sept. 25 

Hinds, William E., Benefactor, Tulv 

Jaspan, Norman, Management Con- 
sultant, Nov. 61 

Kennedy, John F., President, Aug. 83; 
Sept. 25; Dec. 63 

Knopf, Alfred .\., Publisher, Dec. 16 

Lasker, Mary, Dec. 16 

Lawrence, Dorothy Bell, Politician, 
Dec. 16 

Lewis, John E., United Mine Workers, 
Dec. 25 

Love, Edmund C, Writer, Dec. 15 

McNamara, Robert, Secretary of De- 
fense, Aug. 41 

Monk, Thelonious. Jazz Pianist, Sept. 
21; Oct. 70 

Neuberger. Maurine, Senator, Oct. 98 

Potter, Justin, Coal Mine Owner, 
Dec. 25 

Romaine, Lawrence B., Bookseller, 
Oct. 32 

Rusk, David Dean, Secretary of State, 
Nov. 45 

Perrin, Noel — "You Tell Them, 

Pop," Dec. 20 
"Per.sonality Comes to the White 

House, Cult of" — William G. 

Carleton, Dec. 63 
"Photography, On the Art of" — 

Henri Cartier-Bresson, Nov. 73 
"Physics, Uncanny World of 

Plasma," Oct. 64 
Pickrel, Paul — Summer Fiction, July 

91; Fiction, Non-Fiction, Pseudo- 
Fiction, Nov. 109 
Pines, Maya — Sex: The Problem the 

Colleges Evade, Oct. 129; Up to 

Our Necks in Soft White Suds, 

Nov. 94 
"Plan for Revolution in Latin 

.America, A" — Peter F. Drucker, 

July 31 
"Plasma Physics, Uncanny World 

OF," Oct. 64 


"Burn It!" — Robert Graves. Dec. 49 
"Chance What Comes" — Christopher 

Hobson, Oct. 177 
"Daily Globe, The" — Howard 

Nemerov, Nov. 39 
"Examination, The " — W. D. Snod- 

grass, Oct. 154 
"God Opens His Mail" —Larry Rubin, 

July 61 
"Her Husband" — Ted Hughes, Dec. 

"Husking, The" — Dilys Laing, Sept. 

"Our Friends the Russians" — Henri- 
etta Fort Holland, Oct. 97 
"Pavanne for a Dead Doll" — Ogden 

Nash, Dec. 33 
"Psychiatrist's Song " — Hilary Corke, 

Aug. 58 
"Rival" — Phyllis Rose, Nov. 50 
Seven Poems of Boris Pasternak — 

New Versions by Robert Lowell, 

Sept. 44 
"Thread, The" — Denise Lev ertov, 

Sept. 80 
"To a Friend Whose Work Has Come 

to Triumph" — Anne Sexton, Nov. 

"Variations on a Leica Form "— Ruth 

Krauss, Oct. 88 
"Vermont" — John Updike, July 67 
"Voyage" — Samuel ^Ienashe, .Aug. 77 

"Point of no Return?'" — John 

Fischer, July 10 
"Poets of the Year, Some"— Stanley 

Kunitz, Aug. 86 
"Polio, Why We Don't Wipe Out" 

— Leonard Engel, Sept. 77 
"Polish Student Life, Notes on," 

Oct. 164 
Politics. See under Govenirneut. 
Presidents, How to Use Our Ex-. 

Dec. 84 
"Private Eye to Industry, Norman 

Jaspan"— Morton M. Hunt, Nov. 

"Private vs. Public" — Henry E. 

Wallich, Oct. 12 
Probate Court, Aug. 29 
"Proper Tool Will Do the Job, 

The"— Norman Halliday, Oct. 80 


William S. White 

"Kennedy Back in the Senate, How to 

Put," Dec. 84 
"Lady from Oregon," Oct. 98 
"New Irresponsibles," Nov. 98 
"Old Junior's Progress," July 88 
"Summertime, Good Old," Aug. S3 
"Twelve at Table," Sept. 92 

Public Opinion Poll, 1774. Dec. 20 
Public vs. Private Spending, Oct. 12 
"Quebec's Revolt Against the 
Catholic Schools" — Miriam 
Chapin, July 53 
Radler, D. H. — Our National Talent 

lor Offending People, Aug. 63 
" 'Realism' in the American Thea- 
tre"— Mary McCarthy, July 45 


"God in the Colleges," Oct. 17.3 
"How to Destrov the Churclies," Nov. 

"Quebec's Revolt Against the C'atli- 

olic Schools," July 53 

Research, Historical, July 58 

Richey, Elinor — What Chicago 
Could Be Proud Of, Dec. 34 

Rieff, Philip — The Mirage of Col- 
lege Politics, Oct. 156 

Right Wing Movement in Politics, 
Nov. 98 

"Robinson Crusoe in Florida"— Jan 
de Hartog, Aug. 34 

Rogin, Richard — In the Company of 
Runners. Nov. 68 

Rose, Phyllis - Rival, Nov. 50 

Rosenberg, John D. — Matter of Mo- 
tive, Aug. 71 

Roses, Judy — The Common Predica- 
ment, Oct. 145 

Rosten, Leo — Mr. Future, Sept. 48 

Rowen, Hobart — Kennedy's Econo- 
mists, Sept. 25 

Rubin, Larry — God Opens His Mail, 
July 61 

Rudd, Hughes — My Escape from the 
C.I.A., Oct. 43 

Salomon, Louis B. — The Game of 
Words, Nov. 40 

Sanders, Marion K. — New York Is 
Different, July 39 

Sa.n Francisccj Ball Park, Aug. 25 


"Moon, Uses of the," Dec. 56 
"Plasma Phvsics, Uncannv World of, " 
Oct. 64 

"Search for William E. Hinds, 

The"— Walter Prescott Webb, July 

"Sex: The Problem the Colleges 

Evade" — Milton I. Levine and 

Maya Pines, Oct. 129 
Sexton, Anne— To a Friend Whose 

Work Has Come to Triumph, Nov. 

Snodgrass, W. D.— The Examination. 

Oct. 154 
"Society and Art" — Kenneth Clark, 

Aug. 74 


"Uses of the Moon," Dec. 56 

"State Department, Comeback of 

the"— Joseph Kraft, Nov. 43 
Steamship Begonia Belle, Oct. 80 
Stegner, Wallace — Corsica Out of 

Season, Oct. 76 
Steinberg, Leo— Art Books, 1960-61, 

Dec. 87 
"Sterilization, India Experiments 

with" — Rowland Evans, Nov. 79 
Stevenson, Adlai E.— America Under 

Pressure, Aug. 21 
Stock Market, July 21 
"Strange Romance Between John 

L. Lewis and Cyrus Eaton" — Nat 

Caldwell and Gene S. Graham, 

Dec. 25 
"Summer Fiction" — Paul Pickrel, 

July 91 
"Summer Is Another Country" — 

Christine Weston, July 27 
Surrogate's Court, Aug. 29 
"Swarthmore, Eager" — David Bor 

off, Oct. 139 
Taxpayer's Dilemma, Aug. 71 
"Teach, How They M/g/;/"— Ben- 
jamin DeMott, Oct. 153 
"Teachers College: An Extinct 

Volcano" — Miriam Borgenicht, 

July 82 
Temko, Allan — How Not to Build 

a Ball Park, Aug. 25 
Texas, Oct. 48, 179 


Lincoln Center, New York, Oct. 82 
" 'Realism' in the American Theatre," 
July 45 

Thurber, James — The Futiue, If 
Any, of Comedy, Dec. 40 

"Twelve at the Table" — William 
S. White, Sept. 92 

"Uncanny World of Plasma Phys- 
ics, The"— John L. Chapman, Oct. 


"Kennedy's Economists," Sept. 25 
"Strange Romance Between John L. 

Lewis and Cyrus Eaton," Diec. 25 
"Unemployment - Insurance Game," 

Aug. 49 

"Unemployment-Insurance Game, 
How TO Play the" — Seth Levine, 
Aug. 49 
United Mine Workers, Dec. 25 
United States Peace Corps, Sept. 63 

United States Under Pressure, .Aug. 

"Up to Our Necks in Soft White 

Suds" — Maya Pines, Nov. 94 
Updike, John —Vermont, July 67 
"Uses of the Moon, 'Fhe"- Arthur 

C. Clarke, Dec. 56 
"Violence in the City Streets" — 

Jane Jacobs, Sept. 37 
Viorst, Milton — Harvard Universitv, 

Nov. 51 
"Wall Street Amateurs, .\ Warn- 
ing to" — Peter B. Bart, July 21 
Wallich, Henry E.— "Private I's. Pul)- 

lic," Oct. 12 
Washington, D. C, Aug. 83; Sept. 

92: Oct. 98; Nov. 98: Dec. 84 
"Wasted Classroom, The"— Nathan 

Glazer, Oct. 147 
"Way Out of the Welfare Mess. 

A" — Edgar May, Oct. 37 
Webb, Walter Prescott — Search lor 

William E. Hinds, July 62 
"Welfare Mess, a Way Out of the" 

— Edgar May, Oct. 37 

Weston, Christine — Summer Is .An- 
other Country, July 27 

Westport, Connecticut, Dec. 15 

"What Chicago Could Be Proud 
of" — Elinor Richey, Dec. 34 

"What They'll Die for in Hous- 
ton" — Marjorie McCorquodale, 
Oct. 179 

White, William S. - (Public & Per- 
'sonal) — Old Junior's Progress, 
July 88; The Good Old Summer- 
time, Aug. 83; Twelve at the 
Table, Sept. 92; Lady from Ore- 
gon, Oct. 98; The New Irresponsi- 
bles, Nov. 98: How to Put Ken- 
nedy Back in the Senate, Dec. 84 

"Why We Don't Wipe Out Polio" 

— Leonard Engel, Sept. 77 
Williams, Martin — "The New 

Thing" in Jazz, Oct. 69 
Wilson, Reuel K. — Notes on Poiisli 

Student Life, Oct. 164 
"Words, The Game of"— Louis B. 

Salomon, Nov. 40 
Wright, Sylvia — On Botii Your 

Houses, Sept. 33 


Books, See also under 

"Campus Magazines, The New," Oct. 

"Footnote-and-Mouth Disease," July 

"History Today, Writing of. " Oct. 


"You Tell Them, Pop" -Noel Per- 
rin, Dec. 20 

"Young Negro Rebels, The"— Char- 
lotte DeVree, Oct. 133 

Younger Generation, The, July 88 

"Your Unknown Heirs" — Murray 
1 eigh Bloom, Aug. 29 


"Puzzled Report on Yugoslavia," July 

"Yugoslavia's Flirtation wiili Free 

Fiuerprisc," Aug. 1 1 

Yuletide Greeting. Rules for, Dec. 







iriam Borgenicht 


Peter F. Drucker 


Mary McCarthy 








obin Boyd 

Peter B. Bart 



iwo m- 

w nisKies 

» e « 

The individual flavour of 
each has stood the test of 
time since 1627, both from 
the House of Haig, oldest 
scotch whisky distillers . . . 

Quality rims m tlie laiiniy. 



Uont De V^ifJUfJ . , . r/wA /o/ ll'iig C. I hue/ • bi ihuctj oLOIh WHISKY, otj.H fMUjOl • RENI^IELD IMPORTERS. LTD.. J. Y. 


Bell System facilities meet a new need. Already a vital link in filling 
educators' requirements within a locality, state or across the nation 

An interesting current devel- 
opment in education is the use of 
television for instruction— both in 
classrooms and in the home. 

Evidence that a shortage of 
qualified teachers is developing 
coincides with the need for some 
way to meet the awakened interest 
in mathematics, physics, chem- 
istry, and education in general— 
from the elementary school to the 
college level. 

Many educators, in studying the 
twin problems, are thinking more 
and more about the possibilities 
of Educational TV in their teach- 
ing programs. 

In transmitting TV lessons and 
etures from place to place, vari- 
means are available. Closed 
•it Educational TV systems 
'een schools may be required, 
jonnection between broadcast- 
stations in different cities. Or 
ook-up between closed circuit 
ems and one or more broad- 
ing stations. 

hatever distribution of TV is 
^ed, in city, county, state, or 

HELPING TO TEACH . . . HELPING TO LEARN. Classroom scene in Cortland, N. Y. 
This is one of the schools now using Educational TV. More than one TV receiver 
can be used where teachers wish to accommodate larger classes at one sitting. 

across the country, the Bell Tele- 
phone Companies are equipped to 
provide it. They have the facilities 
and years of know-how. And the 
on-the-spot manpower to insure 
efficient, dependable service. 

For five years now, the local 
Bell Telephone Company has pro- 
vided the closed circuit ETV net- 
work which successfully serves 
thirty-six schools in Washington 
County, Maryland. 

In South Carolina 400 miles of 
telephone company facilities now 
connect almost thirty schools in 
eleven cities. In New York State, 

they serve a high school and seven 
other schools in the Cortland area. 

In San Jose, California, they 
link four schools with the campus 
of San Jose State College. And 
in Anaheim, California, eighteen 
schools are served by TV. 

The Bell Telephone Companies 
believe that their TV transmission 
facilities and their many years of 
experience can assist educators 
who are exploring the potential 
value of Educational Television. 

They welcome opportunities to 
work with those who wish to utilize 
the potential of Educational TV. 



Chairman of the Executive 
Committee: CAss canfield 

Chairman of the Board: 




Executive Vice President: 


Vice Presidents: 




Treasurer: LOUls F. haynie 


Editor in Chief: john fischer 

Managing Editor: russell lynes 

Publisher: John jay hughes 







Contributing Editor: 


Editorial Secretary: rose daly 
Editorial Assistant: 




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VOL. 223, NO. 1334 

JULY 1961 



A Warning to Wall Street Amateurs, Peter B. Bart 
31 A Plan for Revolution in Latin America, Peter F. Drucker 
39 NeM' York Is Different, Marion K. Sanders 
45 "Realism" in the American Theatre, Mary McCarthy 

53 Quebec's Revolt Against the Catholic Schools, 

Miriam CJiapin 

58 "The Footnote-and-Mouth Disease," Helene Hanff 

62 The Search for William E. Hinds, ]\'alter Prescott Webb 

73 The New Vision in Architecture, Robin Boyd 

82 Teachers College: An Extinct Volcano? 

Miriam Borgenicht 

27 Summer Is Another Country, Christine Weston 


61 God Opens His Mail, Larry Rubin 
67 Vermont, John Updike 


4 Letters 

10 The Editor's Easy Chair— point of no return? 

joJin Fischer 

14 After Hours, Joshua Logan 

88 Public & Personal— OLD junior's progress, 

Willia7n S. White 

91 The New Books, Paul Pickrel 

99 Books in Brief, Katherine Gauss Jackson 

102 Music in the Round, Discus 

104 Jazz Notes, Eric Larrabee 



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Oppressed Angola 

Vo THE Editors: 

My attention has been called to "The 
Lingdoni of Silence: The Truth about 
ifrica's Most Oppressed Colony" [May] 
ly "Anonymous." . . . Once the anonym- 
ty has been established, on the excuse 
hat the retired American businessman 
lust be protected (protected from 
.hat?), the poison flows freely. ... In 
:ict— I am sorry to say— the article de- 
:?rves as much credence as a jjoisonous 
nonymous letter. But a few pertinent 
oints must be stressed: 

The intimate knowledge, the imjjlicit 
ssociation, of .\nonymous with some 
liady private dealings involving con- 
ract laborers in Angola kiids one to 
onclude that the .American businessman 
1 question ("who has been working 
nd traveling throughout Angola for 
fteen years") only found his scruples 
t a very late date, and then only for 
lie purpose of peddling his tale to 

The Portuguese government is the 
rst one to recognize that, in flagrant 
iolation of the labor legislation in 
))ce, there have been abuses l)y some 
dministrative officials and fdzrtulciros 
n labor contracts. So much so that, in 
he last few years, a number of such offi- 
ials have been dismissed and prose- 
utcd by the courts. One is left to 
,onder if the anonymous American busi- 
lessman (obviously working for a profit 
n .Angola) might have been a part of 
uch shady dealings— and, if not. why 
e did not report them to the govern- 
lent authorities instead of selling his 
indignation" now to an American mag- 
zine. . . . 

When a well-known publication such 
s yours banks on its established reputa- 
nn to promote and disseminate poison- 
lus reporting of the type of "The King- 
lorn of Silence," the question arises 
whether the ultimate insult is against 
'ortugal or against the dignity of .\mer- 
can journalism. We leave the answer 
o your conscience. 

L. EsTEVES Fernandes 

Ambassador of Portugal 

Washington, D. C. 

The Angola report had to he fjtih- 
ished anonymously to protect the lives 
»/ the author's informants. The author 
s a conservative, ivealthy businessman, 
vhom the Editors hiwe known for many 
ears; they have complete confidence in 

his judgment and responsibility. Events 
in Angola since the article was published 
have amply demonstrated its accuracy. 

The Editors 

I visited Angola in 1933. I was a col- 
lege student earning money in the sum- 
mer as an ordinary seaman on the Amer- 
ican-West .African Line. To my shame, I 
had made no attempt to bone up on the 
social, economic, or political back- 
grounds of the twenty-odd colonies I 
visited. ... I knew practically nothing 
about the Belgian and Portuguese ad- 
ministrations and it was twenty more 
years before I learned. . . . 

The moral here is that even well- 
traveled Americans skimming the tops 
of backward countries either don't un- 
derstand or choose to ignore the condi- 
tions they see. Thousands of tourists, 
for example, go to the West Indies 
on vacation each year. They have a 
fine time, visit the island in a taxi, and 
go away feeling that this is an island 
paradise. They don't know that . . . 
the cheerful taxi-drivers have slept all 
night in their cabs in order to get a 
shot at one job from which they will 
kick Ijack 40 per cent of their fee to 
a concessionaire. . . . 

I suggest that Harper's engage in a 
conscious policy to make American tour- 
ists more aware of their own social and 
political significance to the people of 
the countries they visit. I realize this 
is a hideous idea because I can't think 
of anything better calculated to spoil 
the expensive fun for which the tourist 
has saved his money. Ross McKee 

New York, N. Y. 

Too Much Progress? 

To THE Editors: 

Russell Lynes' article "Everything's 
Up-to-date in Texas . . . but Me" [May] 
is fine and it's a pity Texans are de- 
termined to obliterate all the old court- 
houses and mansions, everything old 
except the Alamo, I suppose. But un- 
fortunately Texas is not alone in bull- 
dozing its past. . . . Even Lincoln's own 
courthouse in Springfield, Illinois, is 
threatened. Detroit's most historic build- 
ing. Old City Hall, is to be torn down 
this summer, over the protest of many, 
to make room for an underground park- 
ing garage. ... If Detroit has to tear 
down Old City Hall in the name of 
"progress," there is something wrong. 
Our architectural past should be loved 
and respected as part of our heritage. 

John Neukki.d 
East Lansing, Mich. 

Bless you, Mr. Lynes, for those not- 
so-kind words about Texas. For those 
of us who feel ourselves impaled on a 
Texas longhorn an article like yours 
provides a cheery change of sustenance. 
[But] I can't agree with you that one 
day Texas is going to be sorry, because 
I haven't found Texans capable of re- 
morse except in connection with busi- 
ness deals they missed out on. . . . 

I found your views helpful to my own 
analysis of what I had seen and heard 
during a recent trip to Colorado and 
W^yoming, where I had been alternately 
awed by the majesty of the land and 
appalled by the mediocrity of what man 
is now putting up on it. Out there he 
can still start from sagebrush if he 
wants to, but he often erects a worse 
monument to himself than did his un- 
tutored ancestor, the pioneer. My grim- 
mest shock came in Laramie, Wyoming, 
a town I have known for years and 
where I once lived a more satisfying life 
than I have ever managed to do in 
Texas. Laramie is now the most archi- 
tecturally offensive town I know. The 
new subdivisions cast of town are heart- 
breaking examples of little talent and 
no taste. . . . They have taken virgin 
land and committed upon it almost 
every possible architectural sin, often re- 
fusifig to plant the trees that would in 
time provide protective foliage for the 
most glaring architectural defects. The 
reason behind the no-landscaping policy 
is that trees would block the view of the 
mountains in the distance. A friend, sug- 
gested that some of the owners of the 
new houses had lived so long in base- 
ments before they could build above 
ground that they wanted to see all the 
sky possible when they looked out their 
new picture windows. . . . 

Perhaps it isn't possible to travel the 
U. S. without becoming saddened by 
what is happening to a land of whose 
beauty wc arc supposed to sing. I drove 
along the Mississippi Gulf Coast in 
March and stopwatched the unspoiled 
stretches of it— five minutes here, two 
minutes there. And in Mobile, my home 
town, I could have hanged the city 
fathers from the oaks over Government 
Street. It would have been just retribu- 
tion for the rape of a once fair rue. 

Helen Yenne 
Dallas, Tex. 

Censored Minds 

To the Editors: 

In your excellent supplement, The 
.Mood of the Russian People [May], 
much is made of the fact that what in- 
ternational news the ])eople receive is 
carefully tailored to party purposes. 
Granted. But how much better are 
things here at home? .So far, only those 
who know Latin America and Cuba 

Which frame is stronger? 



Guardrail construction in the 1961 Ford Famil y of Fine Cars has 
greater rigidity, offers the strength of strong side rails. 

Ford Motor Company 
builds better bodies 

Millions of car frames are shaped like 
an "X." Weak in the middle, they 
lack the strength of strong side rails. 
Guardrail frames in the Ford and 
Mercury curve out. They are strong 
in the middle. Guard rails also 
protect passengers in the unitized 
bodies used in Falcon, Thunderbird, 
Comet and Lincoln Continental. 

The underside of a car body has 
exposed parts that are especially vul- 
nerable now that chemical compounds 
are used to keep roads clean and dry. 
In the Ford Family of Fine Cars, the 
most vulnerable body parts are gal- 

vanized, zinc-coated to protect them 
against rust and corrosion. 

* * * 

Doors in the Ford Family of Fine 
Cars are stronger. They are reinforced 
with steel beams. This means they are 
more rigid and therefore close tighter 
and quieter, reducing the likehhood 
of developing squeaks and rattles. 

* * * 

If you compare door latches, you will 
see that in our cars they are bigger 
and heavier than door latches in other 
cars. This makes for a tighter, stronger 
grip which reduces the possibiHty of 
doors springing open under impact. 
Statistics show that passengers who 
remain inside the car in an accident 
are twice as safe. 

* * * 

One reason for the unusually quiet 

ride in the Ford Family of Fine Cars 
is the soundproofed floors. Where 
other cars have only two layers of 
sound insulation, our cars have three 
layers of sound insulation. Each layer 
eliminates a different range of sound 
from rumbles to squeaks. As a result, 
very little noise gets through to the 
passenger compartment. 
* * * 

These are five of the many reasons we 
think you will find (upon comparing 
our cars with other cars) that Ford 
Motor Company builds better bodies. 

American Road, Dearborn, Michigan 


"Few things," said Mark Twain, 
with deadly accuracy, "are harder 
to put up with than the annoyance 
of a good example." In childhood, 
one's parents always seem to be 
pointing to someone else's be- 
havior as superior. And later, other 
people always seem to have cleaner 
cars, shinier shoes, better gardens. 
From the cradle to the grave, the 
presence of the good example 
seems inescapable. 

And now here we are to call 
your attention to another! If you 
are not already an owner of com- 
mon stocks, there are upwards of 
15,000,000 Americans setting you 
a good example . . . 15,000,000 
owners of shares in American busi- 
ness . . . 15,000,000 risk-takers who 
hope to be profit-makers. 

Of course, you're at liberty to 
ignore these good examples if you 
like. But if you do, you'll always 
have the sneaking suspicion that 
maybe they have the right idea — 
that people who begin now to par- 
ticipate in the growth of our econ- 
omy will probably enjoy more of 
the fruits of their investing than 
the late starters or non-starters. 

Probably the best way to tri- 
umph over a good example is to 
follow it. In other words, if you 
can't lick 'em, jine 'em. We're 
ready to help whenever you're 
ready to start. 




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PARIS 7 Rue de la Paix 

142 offices in U, S., Canada and abroad 


well are aware to what extent events in 
Cuba are distorted, exaggerated, and 
presented completely out of context; and 
this by all of the mass media. . . . The 
instinct for self-preservation is strong, 
whether among Party members in 
Russia or capitalists in the U.S. The 
thinking of the masses is manipulated 
by the power elite in either case. 

R. M. Titus 
Boston, Mass. 

It was pleasing to read such a splen- 
did piece of reporting as Priscilla John- 
son's "Death of a Writer" [The Mood of 
the Russian People. May]. . . . 

I was all the more interested because 
one of the men at the Pasternak funeral 
— Kornei Chukovsky— I knew very well 
during my six months' stay in Petrograd 
in 1917-18, when I was a member of 
the .\nglo-Russian Commission. At that 
time he worked for better relations be- 
tween Bolshevik Russia and the West. 
I note that Miss Johnson calls him a 
writer for children. Actually, in the days 
I knew him, and before, he was one of 
Russia's best literary critics; before the 
first world war he wrote "From Chek- 
iiov's Days to Ours." a very penetrating 
piece of criticism of Russian literature 
of the period. We may surmise that he 
was driven into writing exclusively for 
(liildrcn by the Soviet overlords who, 
(hniiig the Trotskyist purge, at the in- 
stigation of Communist hacks, consigned 
my friend Prince D. S. Mirsky ("Damn 
my title!" he once wrote me) to a Si- 
berian concentration camp, where he 
was driven mad and to death by his 
tormentors. He was a great scholar, and 
a great man. Many an hour my wife 
and I spent in trying to dissuade him 
from going back to Russia. But the man 
was homesick, and Gorky promised him 
inmiunity. Miss Johnson's story brought 
it all back to me. It deserves many 

John Colrnos 
New York, N. Y. 

Richard Pipes, in "The Public Mood," 
stated, "But neither is [the Russian] 
the brainwashed automaton so often 
pictured by the outside world." 

I just received some letters from a 
friend who recently arrived in Western 
Europe after twelve years in Russia, the 
first eight in prison. . . . My friend 
writes that, except for a chance meeting 
with a student she would never have 
known there was any dissent or oppo- 
sition left in Russia. She felt no per- 
sonal resentment against her captors 
in spite of privations, hardships, tlireats 
while in prison. 

She came to hate the Party only when, 
after being released, she found a whole 
people— her people— reduced to a state 
( losely resembling .soullcssness by need 

just short of hunger, by the dispropor- 
tionate importance in their lives of each 
small material concession granted by 
their rulers, by the brainwashed grati- 
tude they were taught to feel for any 
improvement in their drab and needy 
existences, and by the threats and 
fears that disbarred any discussion what- 
ever of officialdom or politics. When a 
prison train arrived in her provincial 
town one day and the prisoners were 
transferred to trucks, nobody commented 
on this unusual event or even w-on- 
dercd aloud who the prisoners— obvi- 
ously not common criminals— were. It 
was only after leaving Russia that my 
friend discovered that the prisoners had 
been professors and students arrested 
for printing and distributing suppressed 
news of the Hungarian revolt. . . . Her 
impression of the whole Communist sys- 
tem is summed up in the expressions 
"The Great Brainwash," "The Great 

Name Withheld 

You have truly outdone yourselves 
with this excellent Russian supplement. 
Your reporters have put us in touch 
with our opposite numbers in the 
U.S.S.R. You have shown us people like 
ourselves. . . . What we see in Russia 
today is the same totalitarian state that 
existed since the Tartar invasion; eco- 
nomic systems may change, but the peo- 
ple do not change, nor the types of 
rulers. Khrushchev is merely Peter the 
Great in an ill-fitting suit. 

Lewis Taishoff 
New York, N. Y. 

Holy Madness 

To THE Editors: 

It is hardly likely that a more mean- 
ingful statement than "Apocalypse" 
[May] has appeared within memory on 
the pages of an American magazine. 
May a kinder fate attend the voice that 
Professor Norman Brown has so cou- 
rageously and eloquently raised than 
that of one crying in the wilderness. 

Noel P. Conlon 

Chmn., English Dept. 

^V^atkinson School 

Hartford, Conn. 

It seems to me that instead of aban- 
doning reason and discipline to emotion 
and supernatural frenzy, it is time that 
man. the self-advertised finest handi- 
work of God . . . began to use his gift 
of reason and apply it to his prejudices, 
his mythologies, and his dogmas. 

Frankly, I think this world needs less 
lioly madness— which all malefactors of 
consequence use as their excuse for their 
actions- and more genuine intelligent 
application. For what Professor Brown 

Seated, 1. to r.: Bennett Cerf, Faith Baldwin, Bergen Evans, Bruce Catton, Mignon G. Eberhart, John Caples, J. D. Ratcliflf 
Standing: Mark Wiseman, Max Shulman, Rudolf Flesch, Red Smith, Rod Serling 

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A Warning from 
The Wall Street Journal 

You are living in a period of rapid 
changes. The next 90 days will be filled 
with opportunities and dangers. 

Fortune will smile on some men. Dis- 
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Because reports in The Wall Street 
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wonderful aid to salaried men making 
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advocates is a form of misanthropy 
much more virulent than I, a long-time 
practicing misanthrope, ever dared 
dream of expounding. 

Ward Moore 
St. Louis, Mo. 

Gallic Pitchman 

To THE Editors: 

Long John Nebel's article, "The Pitch- 
man" [May], recalled to mind a thir- 
teenth-century example of the same type. 
Rutebeuf, French trouv^re, in his Le Diz 
de I'Erberie recorded a dramatic mono- 
logue in prose and verse supposedly 
delivered by a quack doctor. It in- 
cludes many of the same elements which 
Nebel said were common to the pitch- 
men of today. I have translated [some 
of] it rather freely as follows: 

"Good people, ... I belong to a 
lady . . . who makes a kerchief of her 
ears and whose eyebrows hang down as 
chains of silver behind her shoulders; 
and know that she is the wisest lady in 
all the four quarters of the world. My 
lady sends us out into many diverse 
lands and diverse countries ... to kill 
wild beasts and extract ointments from 
them to give medicines to those who 
are bodily ill. . . . [Take] these herbs. 
. . . Steep them three days in good white 
wine; if you have not white take red; 
if you have no red take brown, and if 
you have no brown take fair clear 
water. . . . Take [them] the first thing 
in the morning for thirteen mornings; 
if you miss one take another, for there 
is no mystery about them; and I tell 
you by the passion of God that you will 
be cured from all disorders and dis- 
ease. . . ." 

How the medicine man of the thir- 
teenth century made his way to the 
American frontier and then on to tele- 
vision is difficult to trace, but I am sure 
there is some connection. Things really 
haven't changed very much. 

Vern L. Bullough 

San Fernando Valley State College 

Northridge, Calif. 

Reviewers Reviewed 

To THE Editors: 

I must say I have lost interest in your 
book reviews since you changed your 
format. I do not refer to Katherine 
Gauss Jackson's "Books in Brief"; alas, 
these well-written capsules are all I now 
read. I refer to your major book-review 

When Paul Pickrel wrote the reviews, 
I eagerly turned to pages monthly. 
Since your policy of rambling reviewers 
commenced, however, this section lacks 
cf)hesion, continuity, and the flavor a 

single personality gave it. . . . Please re- 
hire Paul or another full-time reviewer 
like him. 

Mary J. Hesi, 
Cincinnati, O. 

Mr. Pickrel again appears in his ens- 
tomary place this month, and under ar- 
rangements for an expanded coverage of 
new books, he and Miss Elizabeth Hard- 
xvick ivill alternate in the regular revieio 
section for ten months of the year. In the 
other two months it will be given over 
to specialists for reviexv of the year's 
outstanding work in poetry and arts. In 
addition, special reports will appear 
from time to time, outside the regular 
review section, by experts in fields of 
particular imf)ortance— science, econom- 
ics, history, international affairs, and 
others; each of these will undertake an 
evaluation of the most significant ivork 
in his field during the previous nine to 
tiuelve months. 

The Editors 

One Lucky Oldster 

To the Editors: 

I hope that none of our members 
read the cruel joke, "Exigencies of 
Eighty" [by Henry H. Saylor, "After 
Hours," May]. With incomes under 
$2,000 a year, they are hardly in a posi- 
tion to worry about custom tailors or 
shirtmakers. We are earnestly working 
toward the day when this will be a fit 
subject for humor, but unfortunately, 
the time is not yet. 

M. J. Castleman 

National Organizer 

Amer. Federation of Senior Citizens 

Chicago, 111. 

Pro Grandpa 

Martin Mayer's article "The Good 
Slum Schools" [April] quoted R. D. 
Morrow, superintendent of the Tucson 
public schools, as referring to Pueblo 
Hiffh School as "that damned school." 
The comment on this point came to us 
from his nine-year-old granddaughter. 

The Editors 

I'd like you to know my grandpa is 
a fare man. And another thing he 
doesn't use that language as you would 
use! He isn't all the things you would 
call him. And he doesn't use the nasty 
words you made up. He never would 
say things like that to anyone. Who 
ever made everything up or if you made J 
it up you or tiiey arn't very nice! I'm 
not standing up for my grandpa but I 
think you are rude and not nice. 

Debbi Purvis 
Tucson, Ariz. 

ELflGfTI}^ Not Anivar Urbina, small citizen of Honduras. But the enemy is there all 
around him —malnutrition, disease, the intense despair of poverty. Anivar and millions like 
him face the Enemy from the day they are born to the quick twilight of their lives. They need 
help now— above all, help to help themselves. They need food, tools, books, medicines and 
technical know-how. By any standard they know, we have these things in abundance. Whether 
it be in Honduras, Africa, India, or even in our own country, this abundance must be shared. 
If we Americans help this child and others like him defeat the Enemy, he will never forget us; 
if we ignore him, or try to bribe him, he will never forgive us. Which will it be? 

RS. Employees and agents of Nationwide voluntarily have been 
sponsoring special self-help programs in four Central American 
countries in cooperation with CARE. More than $150,000 has 
been raised in the last 18 months to provide the people of these 
countries with the tools for better education, medical care, 
agriculture, housing and other basic needs. 

Nationwide Mutual Ins. Co., Nationwide Life Ins. Co., Nationwide Mutual Fire Ins. Co., home office: Columbus 16, 0. 

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the editor^s 


Point of No Return? 

... A Puzzled Report 

from Yugoslavia 

THIS spring a foundation asked me to go 
to Yugoslavia to help pick about twenty 
people— lawyers, writers, scholars, government of- 
ficials—to study in the United States on fellow- 
shijis. I jimiped at the chance, l^ecause I was 
eager to learn something about a country that 
had long [)u//led me, imder circumstances more 
intimate than I could hoj:)e for as a tourist or 
visiting reporter. 

Three weeks and a hundred interviews later, 
it still puzzles me. I came back feeling a little 
like the Oklahoma farm boy who had just seen 
his first giraffe: There ain't no such animal. 

Never before have 1 encountered any place so 
beset with contradictions and bewilderments. Al- 
though I thought I had done my homework 
pretty carefully, I began to rim into surprises the 
minute I landed at Zagreb airport, and they kept 
piling up day after day. It is hard to understand 
how such a mixed-up society can work. Yet it 
obviously does work— apparently a good deal bet- 
ter than I had been led to expect. In the end I 
began to wonder whether this, rather than either 
America or Russia, might not prove to be the 
Wave of the Future for many undeveloped coiui- 
tries in Africa, Asia, and Latin America. 

To this question, or hunch, I can't give a con- 
fident answer, any more than I can explain the 
paradoxes which kept leaping up at every street 
corner. For example: 

1. The Yugoslavs insist they are Communists 
—indeed, the only genuine, pure-strain Com- 
munists anywhere. Yet they distrust and dislike 
the Russians more than anybody, except Ger- 
mans. And creeping capitalism— complete with 
private [jrrjfits, competition, free markets, and a 

good deal of rugged individual enterprise— is eat- 
ing deep into what was, only ten years ago, a 
rigidly socialist (and almost moribund) economy. 

2. The official faith is atheism. Nevertheless 
the government subsidizes theological seminaries 
for the training of Catholic, Greek Orthodox, 
and Moslem clergymen. (Mohammedanism is 
the fastest-growing religion, Avith evangelical 
Protestant sects running a poor second. Nobody 
could tell me why.) In Sarajevo alone, sixty- 
seven mosques are open for business— each with 
a minaret that looks imcannily like an Atlas 
missile. And in Belgrade one of the tallest build- 
ings now going up is a Seventh Day Adventist 
church, financed largely by contributions from 
America. Although the Vatican has been de- 
nouncing the Yugoslav regime bitterly, ever since 
the end of World War II, most of the nurses in 
the biggest military hospital are nuns; and in 
the streets of one town— Dubrovnik— I counted 
nuns in the costumes of five different religious 
orders, plus three varieties of monks. Easter Eve 
services were well attended, by young people as 
well as old. 

3. The Iron Curtain hangs on only one side 
of the country, and not the side you might think. 
Wherever Yugoslavia touches one of the Soviet 
satellites, the frontier is closely guarded and 
traffic is sparse. (The border Avith Albania, that 
forlorn little satellite of Red China, is practically 
in a state of siege.) To the West, however, you 
will see no barbed wire, no mine fields, no watch- 
towers bristling with machine guns. Even the 
customs service is a good deal more perfunctory 
than it is in, say, New York. People wander back 
and forth into Italy, Austria, and Greece about 
as freely as Americans cross into Canada or 
Mexico. Thousands of Yugoslavs spend their 
vacations in Venice and Vienna, and— a more 
telling fact— practically all of them return home. 
Although East Germans are fleeing to the West 
at the rate of about 200,000 a year, Yugoslav 
political defectors are now almost unheard of. 

J. Like all Communist countries, this one is 
run by a small, jjrivileged, disciplined elite: The 
Party. But the Parly members 1 met were 
markedly different in personality from those I 
have known in Russia, Germany, England, and 
the United States. Not one had that harsh, 
humorless, obsessive quality— the preoccupation 
with power to the exclusion of everything else— 
which the typical Communist wears like a kind 
of psychic epaulette. These strike you, not as 
steel cogs in a political api)aratus, but as warm- 
blooded human beings; and some are truly 
civilized, to a degree unknown in Russia and 
rare among politicians anywhere. 

For instance, when I was asked to dinner with 
Mrs. Jose Vilfan— described as "a leading theo- 
retician and Party organizer of Slovenia"— I ex- 
pected a dowdy old battle-axe of the y\nna 
Pauker type; she turned out to be one of the 


most sophisticated and charming women I ever 
met. The Foreign Minister, Koca Popovic, is a 
surrealist poet, a philosopher, the son of a mil- 
lionaire, a scintillating conversationalist— and, 
incidentally, a brave and skillful leader of guer- 
rilla troops. One fairly typical young bureaucrat, 
whom I got to know quite well, has applied for 
Party membership for the same reasons that make 
a junior business executive in New York auto- 
matically a Republican: it's the respectable thing 
to do, and a help to his career. He is, however, 
a good deal more knowledgeable about jazz 
records, smart tailoring, and his Mercedes car 
than about the works of Marx and Lenin; his 
grandfather was a baron, and he proudly traces 
his ancestry back to the twelfth century. 
This is the dictatorship of the proletariat? 

I N spite of such oddities— and the list could run 
on for pages— it does seem possible to draw a few 
tentative conclusions about this curious land. 

For one thing, Yugoslavia apparently is now 
reaching a Point of No Return. More precisely, 
it is passing three of history's milestones simul- 
taneously; in all likelihood it can never turn 
back from any of them; and each of the three 
promises to alter permanently the character of 
its society. 

Milestone One: To the astonishment of the 
Yugoslavs themselves, they evidently are about to 
jell into a real nation. 

A generation ago, this looked most improbable. 
Yugoslavia is, of course, a synthetic state— a 
figment of Woodrow Wilson's imagination, 
pieced together in 1918 out of the broken scraps 
of the Turkish and Austro-Hungarian empires. 
It always seemed on the verge of disintegration, 
and when Hitler struck on April 6, 1941, it did 
fall apart in a matter of hours. (Two years later 
there were nine different "armies" in the coun- 
try, some fighting the Nazis, some the Allies, but 
mostly fighting each other in a civil war of 
maniac complexity.) 

A local proverb describes Yugoslavia as "a 
land with five nationalities, four languages, three 
religions, two alphabets, and one boss." The 
main reason why Tito remains the boss is that he 
is teaching a lot of people to feel— for the first 
time— that they are Yugoslavs, instead of Serbs, 
Croats, Bosnians, Macedonians, or Slovenes. 

They still loathe each other, naturally. A 
Croat, who inherited Western culture by way of 
Austria, is likely to look with contempt on the 
yokels of the eastern provinces, who stagnated 
for five hundred years under Turkish rule. A 
Montenegrin mountaineer— who may own noth- 
ing but his dagger, an ancient rifle, and the rags 
on his back— will scorn all strangers, including 
the tribe in the next valley. (Chances are they 
have been enjoying a blood feud for ten genera- 
tions.) The Serbs remember indelibly that dur- 

ing the war a bunch of Croat Quislings— the 
Ustacha— tried to convert the Greek Orthodox 
peasantry to Catholicism by force, butchering 
some 120,000 men, women, and children in the 
process. So too with the Shiptars, the Ruthenians, 
and all the other racial and religious tag-ends of 
Balkan history: each has a sound reason, stretch- 
ing far into the blood-soaked past, for hating his 

If Tito has managed to weld these unlikely 
fragments into what now looks like a durable 
state, he owes some thanks to a pair of borrowed 
tools— one American, the other Russian. 

From us he took the idea of federalism, a 
radical notion in the Balkans. Before the war, 
the kings of the Black George Dynasty had tried 
to hold the country together by a tightly cen- 
tralized government, run strictly by Serbs— with 
the result that everybody else hated the Serbs 
more than ever. Tito (a Croat) avoided this sort 
of thing by giving each of the main nationali- 
ties its own semi-autonomous People's Republic, 
staffed with local talent. The upshot is that 
State Rights is as popular a doctrine in Yugo- 
slavia as it is in Texas. 

From the Russians he learned to build a Party 
which would serve as an instrument of personal 
power, the most efficient and ruthless one seen 
in these parts since the Sultan's Janissaries. To- 
day it is a lot less heavy-handed than it used to 
be, when Tito was exterminating his rivals and 
fighting a battle for survival with Stalin. In some 
ways, to be noted later, it behaves quite differ- 
ently from any other Communist party in the 

Yet it remains, in Beatrice Webb's phrase, "the 
steel framework of the society," the main force 
making for unity and stability. It looks solid. Its 
top people are bound together, not only by 
loyalty to Tito, but also by a strong chain of 
loyalty to each other, forged "in the woods" (as 
they like to put it) during their three and a half 
years of desperate guerrilla warfare. They really 
are comrades, in a sense much deeper than the 
Communist meaning of that term. So when Tito 
dies— he is now sixty-nine— there is every expecta- 
tion that the levers of power will pass smoothly 
into the hands of his heir apparent, Edvard 
Kardelj. Barring a major war, then, it seems 
likely that the Yugoslav nation is finally here to 
stay. We might as well get used to it, and its 
peculiar ways. 

Milestone Two: Apparently Yugoslavia is pass- 
ing what Walt W. Rostow calls "the economic 
take-off point." Its production is at last going 
up at a faster rate than its population. Con- 
sequently it can now build up its own capital 
without further outside help— thus transforming 
itself, under its own steam, from an underde- 
veloped to a modern industrial society. 

Indeed Yugoslavia's economy is now growing 



faster than either America's or Rus- 
sia's. After careful study of all the 
figures (^vhich are far more detailed, 
complete, and believable here than 
in the Soviet countries), oiu" Embassy 
economists have concluded that the 
true rate of growth in Gross National 
Product is about 10 per cent a year- 
one of the highest in the workl. 

In part, this is due to American 
help— though you \\ould never guess 
it from reading the Yugoslav neA\s- 
papers. (The press is consistently 
hostile.* It rareh mentions I'niied 
States aid, to Yugoslavia or anvbody 
else, nor does it like to admit that 
our government can ever act with 
decency or ^visdora. Nevertheless, 
nearly all the Yugoslavs I met Avere 
fully a^vare of American aid and 
grateful for it. Moreover, they are 
notably cordial to individual Ameri- 
cans—more so, for example, than tlie 
French or Austrians.) 

* One explanation is sheer nation- 
alism. These arc proud and touchy 
people, who hate to concede that thcv 
ever needed anybody's help. Another 
is their need to prove, to themselves and 
to the outside world, that thev are still 
"good Communists." no matter what the 
Kremlin says. So the further they mtne 
awav from orthodox Marxism in their 
domestic affairs, the louder thev are 
likely to scream at the capitalist coim- 
tries. They are almost comicallv afraid 
of being called "lackeys of Wall Street." 

Perhaps for the same reason. Jugo- 
slavia nearly always sides with Russia 
on international issues— even Avhen this 
is against its own interest. For instance, 
Yugoslavia, like all of the small coun- 
tries, has a strong interest in preserving 
the vigor and independence of the 
United Nations. Yet it tamely echoes 
Khrushchev's attacks on Hammarskjold 
and the UN Secretariat. 

A third explanation is plain fright. 
The Yugoslavs know they have nf)thing 
to fear from us; but the Russian army is 
just over the border, and the example 
of Hungary is still fresh. Naturally they 
try hard never to speak a provocative 
word to the Russians, nor a polite word 
to Russia's enemies. 

And beneath all this lie the inherent 
contradictions in the Yugoslavs' position. 
They are trying to be both neutralist and 
Communist at the same time: to get all 
the help they can from the West, to 
placate the East, and also to set them- 
sclvt s up as leaders of a bloc of uncom- 
mitted nations in .Africa. Asia, and 
eventually Latin America. Inevitably, 
their behavior is often devious and 
dfuible-faccd— in a word, Balkan. 

It may be some small comfort to 
note that here, at least, our foreign 
economic policy has worked well- 
however badh it may have gone in 
Laos, the Middle East, or parts of 
Latin America. The amount of aid 
was relatively modest; much of it was 
surplus food. It was used efficiently, 
Avith negligible Avaste or graft. And 
it achieved its objective: to help 
Yugoslavia survive as an independent 
nation. Simply by demonstrating 
tiiat it is possible for a one-time 
satellite to break aA\a\ from the 
Soviet grasp, and then to defy all the 
Kremlin's efforts to crush it by stib- 
version and blockade, the Yugoslavs 
jDcrlormed a major service for the 
catise of freedom. At the same time 
they did great damage to the myth of 
monolithic, infallible Soviet leader- 
ship. \\'hat better rettirn on oin in- 
vestment could we ask? 

But we don't need to invest any 
more money here— or, at least, not 
much. Because of its ctirrent drought, 
Yugoslavia may need some of our 
surplus Avheat this fall. Aside from 
tliat, IioAvever, it is noAV quite capable 
of plugging ahead on its oAvn. In- 
deed, we might do Avell to hint, tact- 
fiUIy but firmly, that the Ytigoslavs 
should begin tcj contribute some- 
thing to undeveloped countries else- 
Avhere. If they aspire to lead these 
countries— and that now seems to be 
Tito's chief ambition— they had bet- 
ter start paying the price of leader- 

T H E J' can well afford it. The surge 
of economic groAsth is obvious to any 
traveler. (Soinetimes painfully so, 
because new apartmenis, factories, 
and office buildings are going up 
everywhere, and the Yugoslav A\ork- 
ing day starts at 7:00 a.m.; bull- 
dozers and air hammers are sure to 
wake you up at that hour, no matter 
how late you went to bed.) 

Housing is still short— after all, the 
country lost a third of all its build- 
ings during the war— but most other 
goods are becoming fairly abundant. 
The supermarkets, faithfully copied 
from the .\merican inodel, are 
stacked high with groceries, dry 
gcjods, detergents, and such minor 
luxuries as Israeli oranges and a soft 
drink known as Jugocoke. I saw no 
one who looked underfed; on the 
contrary man) Yugoslaxs (who are 
notoriously fond of starches and 

fancy pastry) look as if they might 
well spare a few pounds. In the main 
cities, the women dress at least as 
smartly as their counterparts in, say, 
X'ienna or Munich, and at the Zagreb 
opera one can see nearly as many fur 
stoles as at the Met. (No minks, my 
companion informed me, but to a 
male eye they looked attractive 
enough; so did their contents.) 

The Yugoslavs are just as auto- 
cra/y as Americans, and a surprising 
nimiber liave somehow managed to 
get hold of foreign cars. Alihougli 
they need other things— including 
roads— a lot more ingently, they are 
doubling their own attto production 
e\er\ year. In 1961 they expect to 
turn out 32,000 Fiats and Citroens, 
btiilt under licensing agreements 
with the Italians and French. 

A L L this does not mean that the 
country is swimining in fat. The old 
Turkish provinces are still, in fact, 
about the most backward areas of 
Europe. .\ Macedonian friend told 
me that his home town, Skoplje, is 
the biggest city in Europe without 
a sewer system; and in Bosnia and 
Montenegro it is an exceptional 
family that can afford meat oftener 
than once a week. Nevertheless 
everybody I talked to (including the 
anti-Communists and the grtmiblers) 
agreed that things are a lot better 
than they were five years ago, and 
that the rate of gain in living stand- 
ards is picking up fast. 

For this prosperity, most of the 
credit mtist go to the ordinary Yugo- 
slav citizens— however useful our aid 
may have been as a starter. They are 
a remarkably hard-A\orking lot, and 
they look it. In partictdar the men 
and Avomen over forty, who carried 
the greatest strain of the war and 
reconstruction, often appear ten 
years older than their true age. Per- 
haps one of the biggest contributions 
they can make to the Africans and 
Latin .Americans is to persuade them 
that there is a certain relationshij:) 
between hard work and well-being— 
an idea that we have not been able, 
so far, to get across with notable 

Part of the credit, too, belongs to 
the country's break with the old- 
fashioned, Soviet-type economic the- 
ory. Ordy after tlie Yugoslavs sliook 
loose from Russia in 1918 did they 
begin to exj)criment with their 


unique variety of a mixed economy- 
combining some elements of social- 
ism and some of individual enter- 
prise in a highly flexible and 
pragmatic mixture. They are experi- 
menting still. Hardly a week goes by 
without a change in the economic 
ground rules— and all the recent 
shifts have been in the direction of 
further decentralization, more local 
control, greater personal respon- 
sibility.* So far the experiment has 
paid off handsomely. 

Milestone Three: This is the most 
important of all, and the hardest to 
be sure about. My guess might turn 
out to be all wrong. But for what it 
is worth, I am convinced that Tito 
has now carried his people so far 
away from the So\iet camp that he 
could not turn back even if he 
wanted to— which he plainly does 

Even after his death, ii seems to 
me, there is almost no likelihood that 
Yugoslavia will again become a Rus- 
sian satellite. 

Both its economic antl its political 
systems are now Avell along in a proc- 
ess of change which seems to be ir- 
reversible. Neither is apt to become 
identical with our kind of mixed 
economy or our brand of two-party 
democracy. Yet they are already 
closer in many ways to American 
specifications than to the Russian; 
and it is quite possible that the 
Yugoslav experience m:'y prove more 
relevant to other small, undeveloped 
countries with no tradition of self- 
government than our own experience 
—which is, after all, unique and per- 
haps impossible to duplicate. 

The evidence for these conclusions, 
tentative as they are, will be exam- 
ined in another report in this space 
next month. 

* One government official who is 
pretty high up in the Party hierarchy 
cold me, somewhat apprehensively, that 
he thought they were moAing too far 
and too fast. "We are going to have to 
take a step backward before long." he 
said, "or the system will get entirely 
out of control." There is some evidence 
that many of the older Communists, who 
got their training in the Stalinist era, 
have similar forebodings. Perhaps with 
reason. I don't see how economic de- 
centralization can go much lurthcr with- 
out political decentralization av well— 
and that would inevitably mean some 
loosening of the Party's grip. 


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by Joshua Logan 

Joshua Lopan was co-author, direc- 
tor, and producer of "South Pacific," 
for which he ivon the Pulitzer Prize 
in 19S0. The plays and movies tvhich 
he has written, produced, or directed 
range from "On Borroived Time^' to 
"Mister Roberts" and "Sayonara." 

FOOLS rush in where angels 
fear to tread, and American 
movies are here to prove it. 

Recently I led an American inva- 
sion of Marseilles, the largest city of 
Provence. It was my pleasant duty 
to make the motion j^iclurc Faitny, 
which is a combination of the three 
stories Marcel Pagnol wrote in the 
late 'twenties and early 'thirties 
called Tlie Marseilles Trilogy, con- 
sisting of the plays and movies, 
Marius, Fanny, and Cesar. The 
trilogy is a modern French classic 
w'ixh a pecidiar flavor of its own. 
Scenes from it arc reprinted in 
French schoolbooks. Phonograph 
records of the original sound track 
spoken by the great French actor 
Raimu, with Pierre Fresnay and 
Charpin, are collectors' items. The 
"game of cards" is remembered by 
most Frenchmen as the funniest 
scene in modern French literature. 
Plaster statuettes of the game of 
cards are sold as souvenirs all over 

It is said that Marcel Pagnol has 
been collecting an enormous yearly 
income from the replaying of the 
three French films. Surely it was 
because of this work that he ^vas 
made a member of the Academie 
Frangaise and allowed to wear its 
embroidered uniform and sport its 
bejeweled sword. 

But to the French it is not Pagnol's 
property; it belongs to them. All 
France seemed to bristle when I ar- 
rived with my associates to start 
choosing locations in Marseilles. The 
French newspapers dealt with the 
subject in heavy sarcasm. "This 
giant Texan"— I am rather large and 
I was born in Texas— "dreams to 
make an American picture out of 
Fanny! It can't be done! It's ridicu- 
lous, impossible, and typically 
American to think that it can! And 
even if it is good, we won't like it!" 

The only one who dared to dis- 
agree with the newspapers was M. 
Pagnol himself, who had been my 
friend for several years. I had di- 
rected the American musical comedy 
based on the trilogy in 1954. 

"You will make a great picture, 
Josuah," he said to me, pronouncing 
my name very much as the French 
spell it— with the "h" at the end. 
"Of course, my esteemed country 
men say that I have traded my soul 
for money and that this project 
proves I will do anything for that 

miserable commodity, but I really 
believe that the picture will be great. 
It doesn't have to be played by 
Raimu. Raimu was a monster." 
(Monster, in modern French, is a 
very handy expression meaning 
either prodigy or devil.) 

The fact that I had persuaded 
France's two most famous exports, 
Maurice Chevalier and Charles 
Boyer, to j)lay the leading roles of 
Panisse and Cesar, seemed to im- 
press nobody in France. Pagnol says 
that any Frenchman who makes a 
success outside of France is without 
honor to the French. "We are the 
greatest snobs in the world," he says 
with a combination of sneering dis- 
taste and twinkling pride. "Don't 
let them frighten you. Go right 
ahead and make a great picture. I 
will enjoy being famous in the out- 
side world." 

I rented an office in Paris in the 
Studios de Boulogne and started 
casting. I still had to find a young 
French girl to play Fanny. Leslie 
Caron had refused because she also 
didn't believe any foreigner could 
make an American version of these 
French masterpieces. 

This was not my first wrestling 
match with the problems of Fanny. 
When S. N. Behrman and I tried to 
translate the three plays into ac- 
ceptable English for the musical 
comedy which we did together, with 
Harold Rome's music and lyrics, at 
first Pagnol's Marseilles phrases 
seemed to defy translation. Even 
though the trilogy is a sweetly sad 
and rueful story, it is told in broad 
comic terms. The Marseillais are 
cavalier boasters; they talk and ges- 
ture with bravura. Alphonse Daudet 
in Tartarin de Tarascon blames it 
on the sun. He says the sun is so 
hot when it glares down on the Midi 
that it acts as a magnifying glass 
and tends to enlarge everything— 
gestures, voices, even the content of 
what people say. It's not lies the 
peojile of Provence tell— merely 
elephantine truths. 

Behrman and I had to conjure up 
English that would taste as salty as 
Pagnol's French and yet dodge every 
hint of English or American slang.I 
Harold Rome had the same problem; 
he could only write lyrics that used 
a kind of classic, timeless English. 

In our version we kept the char- 
acter of Panisse alive until the cur 
tain was coming down at the end ol 

the play; in Pagnol's trilogy Panisse 
died at the very beginning of the last 
third of the story, leaving little sus- 
pense. Pagnol, upon reading our 
version of the play, wrote me a letter 
saying, "At last you have found an 
ending for me." 

In preparing for the motion pic- 
ture, Julius Epstein was engaged to 
rewrite our version and make it into 
a scenario. After many meetings 
with him and executives of Warner 
Brothers, we decided to do a non- 
musical version of Fanny, using 
Harold Rome's warm score to under- 
line the moods of the picture but 
avoiding all songs. It was mostly a 
question of length. Songs take time, 
and we wanted to tell more of Pag- 
nol's story. Also, the French do not 
like the American musical form in 
pictures; neither do the Germans, 
Italians, or Swiss. Without the 
European market everyone felt it 
would be too great a risk. 

Julius Epstein watched the three 
pictures again, using their sound 
tracks and our libretto as his 
main sources. He then proceeded to 
add scenes that had had to be elimi- 
nated from the musical version. 

I passed out copies of the script to 
all my French associates, who were 
bilingual. There was imiformity in 
the reaction to it. Each looked up 
after having read the last lines of 
the script and, with enormously 
surprised eyes, said, "Why, it's 

My two biggest problems at that 
time were to get a girl to play Fanny, 
and secure a square-rigged sailing 
ship which represented the femme 
fatale of the piece. This ship was to 
lure the young boy, Marius, away 
from Fanny's arms. The time for 
shooting was getting closer. Michel 
Romanoff, my assistant, took off in 
an airplane to scout all the ports 
in the Mediterranean for a square- 
rigged ship. I flew to England to 
try and persuade Leslie Caron to 
change her mind. She finally capitu- 
lated when she realized that Chajles 
Boyer, whom she had long admired 
and who was as French as she was, 
had agreed to play the part of Cesar 
which Raimu had created. It was 
not because of me but the thought of 
playing with Chevalier, Boyer, and 
Horst Buchholz that finally captured 

Time was getting short. Dresses 
and hair pieces were being made in 

England for Leslie. The huge sets 
were beginning to be constructed. A 
crew of workmen took off by train 
and car to start building the scaf- 
folding on the Old Port in Mar- 
seilles. The sets ^vere to represent the 
weather-beaten buildings which had 
been torn down during the war on 
the right side of the port; and they 
were to camouflage the new concrete 
structures there. The left side of the 
port, capped by Notre Dame de la 
Garde, was still almost intact. 

M Y little office at Boulogne was like 
a small lifeboat. In every corner of 
the room were French actors prac- 
ticing English so that I could decide 
it they could play in the picture and 
still be understood. 

A telephone call came from Palma 
de Mallorca from Michel Romanoft. 
He had found the perfect ship! She 
was the Verona, an English barken- 
tine built many years ago by Mr. 
Singer, owner of the Singer Sewing 
Machine Comjiany. Recently she 
had been re-rigged with square fore- 
sails to be eligible for the tall-ships 
contest of last year's Olympic Games. 
Her captain flew up to see me in 
Paris. Yes, she could sail into and 
out of the harbor in Marseilles, just 
making it, and dangerous it would 

Salvatore Baccaloni, the Metropol- 
itan buffo, arrived from America, 
ready to jjlay the ferryboat captain. 
Lionel Jeffries flew over from Eng- 
land to discuss playing M. Brun, the 
tall and lanky customs inspector. 
Since M. Brun was supposed to be 
from Lyons and a foreigner in 
Marseilles, we felt we could take the 
liberty of casting an Englishman in 
that part. 

Huge, wonderful Georgette Anys 
walked into my room. She was ob- 
viously Fanny's mother, Honorine 
the fishwife. But she could scarcely 
speak English. We decided to take 
the chance; she went into intensive 
diction lessons. 

Suddenly, the cameraman we had 
been counting on to photograph our 
picture became unavailable. Zinn 
Arthur, my public relations assistant, 
suggested that we try for Jack 
Cardiff, the master cameraman of the 
early days of Technicolor. Cardiff 
had just directed Sons and Lovers, 
to be shown at the Cannes Festival. 
He was now a full-fledged director, 
and a distinguished one. Perhaps 

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he Avould consider the job of camera- 
man a step doAvn. By some miracle 
he did not then have another direc- 
torial offer, and decided to come with 
us. That was a good day. 

A frantic telephone call came 
from Marseilles. It was our art di- 
rector, Rino Mondellini. Permission 
to build our sets had been rescinded. 
The people of Marseilles were up in 
arms that their beautiful sidewalk 
had been disfigured by several hun- 
dred holes dug into it by pneumatic 
chills. "Yes, we ga\c \ou permission, 
but we no^\' take it back." Without 
the jiolcs we could not put uj) the 
supports; without the supports 
the sets ^v'ould blow clown during the 
mistral. ""With all those holes," said 
Rino, "it's the biggest golf course in 
the Av'orld!" "We laughed but we 
didn't feel like laughing. 

We all flew to Nice to see if we 
could use the old harbor there and 
make it look like Marseilles. Rut I 
was stubborn; I had come this far 
to photograph Afarseilles and I was 
not going back \\ithout accomplish- 
ing the mission. 

Again to Marseilles, \\niat could 
we do? If we ])ointed our camera in 
the direc tiou to the left of the port, 
it Avas all right. Once we swung to 
the right, Marseilles looked like a 
modern city of bland, scjuarc con- 
crete. We decided to j^hotograph all 
the scenes two ways. As the camera 
looked left, we woidd be in Mar- 
seilles. When we swung to the right, 
we would move to a little toAvn 
called Cassis where there were old 
buildings along the right side of the 
harbor— and then by cutting the two 
angles together we could recreate the 
old city. This was complicated, 
difficult, but possible. Peace was 

An army of technicians, actors and 
their families arrived in Marseilles. 
Half of us lived in Cassis, seventeen 
miles away. Horst liuchholz arrived 
from America where he had been 
fdming The Magnificent Seven. 

Meantime, everybcxly in Marseilles 
began to harangue us about our cast- 
ing. Taxi-drivers said, "How can 
.Maurice Chevalier play Panisse? He's 
a Parisian! Charles Boyer in the 
great Raimu's part? Impossible! He 
hasn't got the accent! .And what 
about this German boy?" 

.\ fishwife at the vast covered fish 
market cjn the left bank of the old 

harbor asked me, "Who is going to 
play Fanny?" When I said Leslie 
Caron, she turned and looked at all 
of her associates as they exchanged 
those French grimaces and shrugs 
which can mean almost anything. 
"Don't you like her? ' I ventured. 

After a long pause, she spoke in 
a very careful voice. "She's a good 
dancer." That is all I could get. 

But the waiter who served Mr. 
Buchholz his orange juice the morn- 
ing before we took off, looked him 
over in such a critical way that my 
heart almost stopped beating. Fi- 
nally, he noddecl his head in ap- 
j^roval. Yes, Horst Buchholz looked 
like Marius. The waiter was willing 
to let us proceed. 

THE first shot I planned to get was 
of Marius up in the shrouds of the 
square-rigged ship, sailing past the 
Chateau d'lf, looking back toward 
Marseilles. For this we had brought 
a helicopter and crew from England. 
And then I learned an awful fact. 
The wind that fills the sails of a 
scjuare-rigged ship is the opposite 
wind to the one that is needed to 
photograph from a helicopter. The 
helicopter had to force itself against 
the wind in order to remain steady. 
Also, if the wind was right for the 
sails, the sim seemed in the Avrong 
direction; if the sun was right, the 
helicopter could not fly. Horst Buch- 
hcjlz remained up in the rigging for 
hours as the helicopter made pass 
after pass, trying to photograph the 

AVhen we came back that after- 
noon, exhausted, discouraged, we 
did not know that we had filmed 
the most exciting shot in the picture. 
We met a jubilant cre^v who had 
been waiting for us. "Marseilles has 
capitulated! The picture is going to 
be a great success!" Michel Roman- 
off and the production staff were 
exultant. "We are going to get all 
the co-operation we need now." 

"What happened?" I said. 

Michel replied, "The helicojiter! 
The citizenry was very impressed 
that you would go to such trouble 
and expense as to actually bring a 
helicopter to photograph their city. 
Now they believe it actually has a 

Soon our problem was noi their 
clisaj)proval but their exhausting 
enthusiasm. Would we use their 

restaurant for the actors to change 
their clothes? Could five hundred 
people come in and look at the set? 
Teen-agers swarmed around Leslie 
Caron and Horst Buchholz for auto- 
grajjhs and conversation. Would we 
come to dinner with the mayor? 
Would we have lunch with the port 
director? The assistant mayor? The 
assistant port director? The head of 

Each evening we had to attend an 
"aperitif" given by various members 
of the crew, which meant drinking a 
Cinzano or pastis at a nearby bar 
before taking off for our hotels. 

The sun shone brightly all day 
long— the hot sun of the Midi. Al- 
phonse Daudet was right. Adjectives 
soon became superlatives. It was the 
best cast, the greatest crew, and the 
finest story ever told. We loved 
Marseilles and Marseilles loved us. 
The cast loved each other. We 
patted each other on the back after 
every scene. Kisses, hugs, hand- 
shakes, aperitifs, bouillabaisse, ail- 
loli, vin rose. Euphoria! 

*A movie company is apt to become 
slightly high under the worst condi- 
tions. They are displaced persons 
working in an unfamiliar place 
against enormous odds of weather 
and time. But put them under the 
hot sun of the Midi and the cup of 
truth runneth over. 

AS I write this, it is six months 
since we stopped shooting the pic- 
ture. Throughout these months I 
have been running the film in the 
cutting-room, trying to get it into 
the correct shape to be distributed 
for an American audience. I am no 
longer in the hot Midi sun. The 
shadow of New York brings realism 
back to me. 

I am optimistic that Americans 
and Britishers will like Fanny, but 
1 worry about the French. Would 
we like to see a French company 
come to the banks of the Mississippi 
and make a movie of Huckleberry 
Finn? No matter how good it was, 
no matter how faithful to Mark 
Twain, could we accept a freckled- 
faced boy in a tattered straw hat 
smoking a corncob pipe who spoke 
French? Or think of Jim! Aunt 
Polly! The widow Douglas! 

oil, no! Like Fanny, the idea's 
ridiculous— and only a fool would 
try it. 

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Who stopped the battle inside the vitamin tablet? 

The vitamin tablet above, wearing the inviting pink coat, is called Vigran M. In it, 10 vitamins and 7 minerals live peacefully together. 

Some vitamins are natural-born fighters, into one of the tablet's coatings. And they set 
Dump them together in a tablet and even- up a system that checks quality and potency 
tually they'll destroy each other. About 3 more than 200 different times. All this was 

billion vitamin tablets ago, 
the Squibb Division of Olin 
figured out how to keep vita- 
mins from scrapping. They 
put A and D into separate 
granules. They put Bi, B- and C into their 
own private wrap. They took B12, the one all 

done to help make sure that a 
Squibb vitamin tablet main- 
tains its full strength not 
just until it goes into the 
bottle (that's easy) but right 
up to the moment you pop it into your 
mouth. ■ Another creative solution to a 


the other boys pick on, and tucked it safely problem. . .from the Squibb Division of Olin. 



KCBS San Francisco alerted millions to the importance ot \oting, oliered iolution^ to ease the 
cumbersome local registration system with its editorial titled, "Before It's Too Late." 

KMOX St. Louis urged the adoption ot an 
anti-fireworks law. 

-WCBS Nov York urged the New York State 
Legislature to support a bill raising the mini- 
mum age for purchase of liquor from 18 to 21. 

WBBM Chicago backed the Police Superin- 
tendent's stand that his department's most vital 
need was more equipment, not more manpower. 

JCNX Los Angeles criticized the City Council 
and the Park and Recreation Commission for 
the 3V2 year delay in building the zoo. 

WCAL Philadelphia demanded a thorough in- 
vestigation of voting frauds. 

VVEEI Boston criticized the mob that attacked George Lincoln Rockwell, self-proclaimed fuehrer 
of the American Nazi Party. The station pointed out that freedom of speech applies to everyone. 

These editorials are not from seven of 
Annerica's most important newspapers. 
They represent the voices of the seven 
radio stations across America that share 
the belief that radio has something to say 
as well as something to ploy. 

This, in fact, sets the CBS Owned Radio 
Stations opart. They take an active posi- 
tion on important issues within their com- 
munities. They take o stand. They not only 
encourage rebuttals. They seek ihem out. 

Last year 164 special editorials were 
broadcast by these seven strategically 
placed stations. This year editorials are 
continuing at on even greater rate. The 
result — within earshot of millions of listen- 
ers—is idea radio. Broadcasting put to 
positive, stimulating use. 

Recently Stotion KCBS in Son Francisco 
-/on the Notional hHeadliners Club Award 
I jr the Best Radio Editorials in the nation, 
r<. •/•/''n'^ ir. New York received the Ohio 

State University Regional Award for 
"Opinion On The Air," its series of ■v^ll- 
documented editorials. 

Wherever there is a CBS Owned Radio 
Station the listener knows he con hear this 
kind of informed stand on what's happen- 
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he con reach people who listen closelv ^'~'"' 
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Dreams of the affluent society and the space age 

— plus an old-fashioned urge to gamble — have 

brought hundreds of thousands of greenhorns into 

the stock market. . . . Many of them are behaving 

so foolishly that they scare even the old pros. 

ON E ot the more popular stories making 
the rounds of Wall Street saloons this 
spring concerned the ielloAv ^vho called his 
broker and asked him to buy lour himdred 
shares of a company called Ultrasonics Precision. 
When the broker asked whether his customer 
knew anything special about the company the 
customer replied: "My barber told me to buy 
it— he's given me some good tips lately." 

The transaction was completed, but two weeks 
later, after the next haircut, the customer called 
again. "I was all wrong," he said, "^^y barber 
recommended Ultrasonics Industries, not LHtra- 
sonics Precision. Sell Ultrasonics Precision and 
buy me the right one. " The broker did as di- 

rected only to find that his customer had cleared 
an $800 profit on the "wrong" stock. 

The story, and its several variations, may be 
apocryphal, but, like most such tales, it tells 
something of the tenor of the times. And the 
tenor of the times on "Wall Street these days 
is deeply disturbing to many thoughtful finan- 
cial men because there are too many barbers 
and friends of barbers acting exactly like the 
people in the story. 

In short, \Vall Street is worried about the 
growing role of the small speculator in today's 
market. It was this sort of \\'orry that led Keith 
Funston, the tall and august President of the 
New York Stock Exchange, to flash a warning 
signal early this spring. Addressing the jjublic 
in the manner of an impatient parent \\ho had 
just caught his child ^vith a hand in the cooky 
jar, Mr. Piuiston intoned: "There is disquiet- 
ing evidence that some j^eople have not yet dis- 
covered tliat it is impossible to get something 
for nothing." ,A month later he warned: "The 
behavior of the jjublic makes a mockery of the 
word 'investing'." 

What triggered Mr. Funston's warnings was the 
sudden specidative lever that swept the market 
in March, April, and May. Volume soared to 



record levels, the Dow- Jones industrial average 
hit a new high, standing-room-only crowds sud- 
denly materialized at many lirokerage-house 
board rooms, and, in the words of one broker, 
"people raced around buying stock as if they 
feared there wouldn't be any left the next day." 

The sudden mass enthusiasm for the stock 
market was attributed to several factors— the ap- 
parent end of the recession, the change of Ad- 
ministration in Washington, the prospect of 
further inflation. But it also reminded Wall 
Street of an important change that has taken 
place in the securities business in recent years— 
namely, that the stock market has become a mass 
market. Although Wall Street has worked hard 
to bring about this change, it knows remarkably 
little about the new "monster" that it has created. 

How will the mass market behave in periods 
when significant gains in the economy appear in 
the offing? How will it respond to sudden down- 
turns and disappointments? M^ill it be able 
to contain its speculative surges? No one pre- 
tends to know the answers to these questions, 
but many analysts are extremely apprehensive 
about what the answers may turn out to be. 

"We may be about to witness a phenomenon 
once deemed inconceivable— a wave of mass spec- 
idation that would have been impossible in the 
1920s," said Bradbury K. Thurlow, vice presi- 
dent and treasurer of the Wall Street firm of 
Winslow, Cohu and Stetson, Inc. "The 1929 
boom may actually have been only a trial run 
for the one now apparently getting luider way." 
Mr. Thurlow pointed out that in 1929 only 
about 1,500,000 people owned common stocks 
while today the number of share-owners is esti- 
mated at fifteen million. The big brokerage 
houses, noting that the number of stockholders 
has doubled in less than ten years and that new 
accounts are opening at a record clip, hope for 
a share-owning population of perhaps thirty 
million in another five years or so. 

The problem with a speculative boom in this 
sort of mass market, say Mr. Thurlow and many 
other analysts, is that it would inevitably lead 
to a spectacular bust— a bust which could destroy 
millions of investors as well as speculators and 

As a financial reporter on the "Neiv York 
Times," Peter B. Bart has been watching the stock 
market become a supermarket. He is a Swarthmore 
graduate who studied also at the London School 
of Economics and has done financial and general 
reporting for the "Wall Street Journal" and Chicago 

give the market a "bad name" for at least an- 
other generation. 

This is a disquieting prospect for Wall Street 
leaders who have struggled long and hard to 
enhance the stock market's "corporate image." 
Thanks to their efforts and expenditures, the 
symbolism of the bucket shop and the back- 
room manijiulator has been banished, and a 
new aura of gray-flannel respectability now sur- 
rounds the stock market. It is this structure of 
confidence and respectability which the outbreak 
of mass speculation threatens, and that is why 
Wall Street is uneasy. 

IF it's new 

ALTHOUGH the speculative fever has 
affected all facets of the securities busi- 
ness, it has focused particularly on small, 
relatively unknown companies- especially com- 
panies selling stock to the public for the first 
time. So strong has been the swing to the little 
companies that some analysts have labeled it 
"the revolt against the blue chips." 

The "new issues" were a fit target for specu- 
lation. For one thirtg, companies selling stock 
to the public for the first time generally issue 
a small amount of shares. And because there are 
so few shares in the hands of the public the 
price can be driven up even by a minor surge of 
interest. Moreover, the new shares usually are 
issued at prices designed to attract investor in- 
terest. In a bull market, these often are bargain 
prices indeed. 

Finally, many of the new companies "going 
public" are in space-age industries and bear such 
melodramatic names as Datamation, Electro- 
Sonic Laboratories, Electronics Missiles Com- 
pany. Corporate names like these have pull in 
the market. (Agricultural Equipment Corpora- 
tion, a manufacturer of weed burners, re- 
cently changed its name to Thermodynamics, 
Inc., prior to issuing stock.) 

As a result of these various factors, brokers 
have been besieged by customers demanding 
shares in the new issues, and the prices have 
taken off like rockets. Companies like Packard 
Instrument, Renwell Electronics, and Pneumo- 
dynamics have doubled within days of the stock 
issue. Stock in Alberto-Culver, a small producer 
of hair tonic and shampoo, was issued at $10 
and soared almost immediately to .1525 a share. 
Shares in one company bearing the non-space-age 
name of Mother's Cookie Company leaped from 
$15 to .'i;25 within forty-eight hours. Cove Vita- 



mill and Pharmaceutical went from $3 to $60 in 
three months. 

"My customers don't even want to kno^v what 
a company manufactures or what its earnings 
prospects are," said one young Wall Street broker. 
"If it's a new issue they want it, Avhatcver the 

Some Wall Street firms have tried to cool 
the ardor of their customers. White, Weld and 
Company refused to open accounts for customers 
who were interested solely in new issues. Merrill 
Lynch, Pierce, Fenner and Smith made a sur- 
vey of forty-six companies that had issued stock 
during the 1945-46 new-issues boom, and fotuid 
that only two of the companies now are selling 
above the offering price. 

These efforts in general, however, were with- 
out much effect. "In this kind of situation a 
broker is like a prostitute," reflected a high 
official of one old-line Wall Street firm. "If we 
turn away any business we know darn well they'll 
just take it elsewhere." 

The basic problem with a new-issues boom, 
however, is that it tends to be self-propelling. 
Public enthusiasm for the newly issued securities 
encourages more companies to bring out stock- 
thus there are more new secinitics registration 
statements before the Securities and Exchange 
Commission at this time than ever before in that 
agency's history. Mean^vhilc. prestige luider- 
writers who formerly snubbed smaller issues have 
suddenly developed a fondness for them because 
of tlie profits involved. And the small specida- 
tor is encouraged all the more to dive into the 
new-issues market because he sees such distin- 
guished firms backing the shares. 


ANOTHER reason it is difficult to bring 
order to the new-issues boom is that most 
new offerings first appear on the volatile over- 
the-counter market, where they are harder to 
control than on the exchanges. In fact, it is 
here that the most frenzied speculation has taken 
place not only in new issues but in established 
stocks as well. 

The over-the-counter market is something of 
a misnomer, since there is no counter and no 
clearly defined market— that is to say, no central 
place where the shares are auctioned off as in the 
case of the New York Stock Exchange or the 
American Stock Exchange. The so-called "mar- 
ket" consists of some five thousand dealers in 
offices scattered all over the country, each of 
whom has a battery of phones and a nervous 

stomach. Nonetheless, it is the nation's biggest 
mechanism lor trading securities, with five times 
as many stocks regularly traded as on the "Big 
Board" of the New York Stock Exchange. It has 
long served as a proving ground for small com- 
panies as well as a pleasant retreat for established 
concerns which shy from the jjublicity surround- 
ing the major exchanges or don't want to dis- 
close data required to attain a listing on the 

However, as a resiili ol the lad lor new issues 
and the general surge of speculation in relatively 
unknown companies, the apparatus for over-the- 
coimter trading has been strained to the break- 
ing point. Dealers in over-the-counter secvnities 
use words like "fantastic" and "unbelievable" 
to describe their volume of business, and many 
say that they made more money in commissions 
during the first quarter of 1961 than during 
all of" 1960. 

If many of the old timers on the over-the- 
counter market have been awed by the tre- 
mendous volume, they've been equally aghast 
at the way in which the jjublic has cast aside 
the traditional yardsticks used in evaluating 
stocks. These yardsticks involved such consid- 
erations as the dividend yield (5 per cent was 
considered reasonable) or the "price-earnings 
ratio"— the relationshij) between a company's 
earnings and the price of the stock. (If a stock 
sold at more than ten or tAvelve times the com- 
pany's earnings, many brokers used to consider 
it overpriced.) In today's market, A\iih attention 
focused on so-called groAvth stocks, j)eople clamor 
to buy stocks which have no yields and sell at 
fifty or one hundred times earnings. Thus in 
May IBM was selling at 75 times earnings. Po- 
laroid at 95 times earnings, and Fairdiild Cam- 
era at 60 times earnings. 

"It's possible to argue that the IBMs and 
Polaroids are well worth their current j)rice," 
notes Stephen H. Weiss of A. G. Becker and 
Company. "But in a market like this one the 
good growth stocks tend to cast their aura of 
glamour around do/ens of small, unseasoned 
companies operating in rotighly parallel fields. 
The result is astronomical and imjustified prices 
for imknown, unstable stocks." 

The cult of the growth stock traces its origins 
to several sources. For one thing, it's in keeping 
with the speculative spirit of the times. For an- 
other, most people in the ui)per tax brackets 
prefer to maneuver among the esoteric, low- 
yield growth stocks and pay a capital-gains 
tax limited to 25 per cent rather than pay higher 
taxes on dividend income. Finally, investors 



figure thai the sjiowth stocks hold mit the bright- 
est prospects tor short-term appreciation rather 
than the once-popular but shiggishly perform- 
ing "bhie chips." 

The growth-minded nnxul ot the current mar- 
ket was effectively, it unintentionalh parodied 
not long ago bv comedians Lou Holt/ and jack 
Paar when Mr. Holt/ confided to Mr. Paar on a 
national television show that he tmned a stock 
listed on the American Exchange \\hich would 
move from $10 to SI. 000 in ten years. The follow- 
ing dav was a memorable one for the Exchanges 
510 stocks. The favorite with the television- 
minded specidators was a company named MPO 
\ideoironics. and trading in that stock couldn't 
be opened until a few miniues before the close 
because of a rush of buv orders. .\las. the com- 
panv proved to be a double disappointment. 
To begin with, it wasn't the stock Mr. Holtz 
had in mind: and its principal product turned 
out to be television commercials. 

As one Wall Street analvst commented on the 
whole episode. "Never have so many people in- 
vested so much money so stupidly. ' 


TH E Jack Paar-Lou Holt/ incident was 
liardlv the onlv case in which stocks sud- 
denlv took oft under mvsterious circumstances. 
In this case, of course, the luiderlving cause 
seemed to be innocent enough. In a number of 
other cases, however, the suspicion of manipula- 
tion hung over the market. 

There is no wav of knowing how much old- 
fashioned price rigging takes place in Wall Street 
todav. i.e.. the creation of an artificial demand 
to buv or sell a stock bv influential insiders. 
Some financial men scoff at the idea; others 
insist, however, that price rigging persists to an 
alarmin? extent and is a verv real threat to 
public confidence. 

The fKwition of the latter group Avould appear 
to gain credence from several recent actions of 
the Securities and Exchange Commission ag;iinst 
prominent \Vall Street finns. The most speciac- 
idar case involved charges of massive rigging 
and illegal distribution of SIO million worth of 
seciuities. In Mav. these charges rcNulted in the 
expulsion of Gerard A. Re and his son. Gerard 
F. Re. from the .\merican Stock Exchange. Re. 
Re and Sag-arese at one time A\as one of the 
largest specialist finns on the American Ex- 

The Re case aroused a great deal of comment 
for several reasons. For one thing, it was the 

first lime since the establishment of the SEC 
in \9M that the agencv had taken action against 
a specialist. The specialists role is a pivotal one 
on the exchanges, since he is charged with the 
responsibility of maintaining an orderly auction 
market in those securities assigned to him. 

Moreover, one of the nianv prominent men 
who had been victimized by some of the Re deals 
was Edward T. McCormick. president of the 
American Stock Exchange. 

As part of its crackdown on market manipula- 
tion, the SEC announced that it woidd inidertake 
an investigation of the American Stock Exchange. 
Meanwhile, it brought disciplinarx action 
against Bruns, Xordeman and Company, for 
manipidating the price of shares in Gob Shops 
of America, a small chain of Rhode Island 
stores, and against an luiderwriter. R. A. Hol- 
man and Companv. on charges of holding back 
shares in a stock sale in order to create an arti- 
ficial demand. The SEC also warned under- 
writers against so-called "tie-in sales'" in which 
newly issued securities are sold on condition that 
the buyer later will purchase an additional 
amount on the open market. 

While the SEC was cracking down on some 
of the more blatant market malpractices, the 
exchanges also were tightening the screws in 
other areas. The New York Stock Exchange, for 
example, recentlv stiftened its requirements for 
getting a stock listed. The New York and Amer- 
ican Exchanges have stepped up their so-called 
"stock watching " activities, in which staff mem- 
bers quietiv investigate situations where prices 
suddenlv spint or volume soars for no appar- 
ent reason. The Xew York Exchange also re- 
minded companies on the Big Board of their 
(Obligation to disclose immediatelv anv informa- 
tion that might have an effect on the prices of 
listed securities. 

The Big Board's warning was precipitated by 
a series of incidents in which important com- 
panies were especially obvious in "leaking" in- 
formation in advance of official annoiuicements. 
One big electronics companv. for example, took 
groups of reporters and security analvsts out to 
see an imp<irtant new computer several days 
before the siorv was to be released for publica- 
tion. The visits generated sufficient riunors to 
push up the slock by five points during the two 
days immediatelv preceding the announcement. 

It is this sort of practice which has given new 
I urrencv to the old \\'all Street sa\ing: "Buy on 
the rumor and sell on the news." The reason- 
ing behinil it is that when importaiu news 
is brewing about a compain— a merger, stock 



split, or important new product— the stock ^vill 
rise until the story hits the papers and then will 
decline. The effect is to put the squeeze on the 
gullible investor ^vho is impressed by Avhat he 
reads in the paper— and to increase the flocking 
of lambs into ^Vall Street for shearing. 

Burton Crane, the stock-market columnist of 
the New York Times, traced the market perform- 
ances of t^venty-eight companies ^vhich had an- 
nounced stock splits and loiuid that nearly all 
had climbed in the ^veeks prior to the announce- 
ment. However, far more stocks fell than rose 
dtning the period immediately following release 
of the news. Thus some cynical members of the 
financial press refer to many of their stories as 
"near-news" rather than news. "Near-ne^vs" is 
information that has been methodically leaked 
to all persons w\\o might possibly have interest 
in the story and ^vho might be in a position to 
profit from advance knowledge. 

The expanded role of "near-news" has coin- 
cided with the grooving importance of special 
stock deals in that part of the public relations 
industry which specializes in publicizing and dis- 
tributing financial and business news. More and 
more companies now include some sort of stock 
arrangement as part of the total remuneration 
paid to public relations agencies. For instance, 
many corporations grant stock options to the 
PR agencies which allow them to buy stocks 
at their original low prices well after they have 
increased in value. The effect has been to focus 
the attention of the PR people on the price of the 
stock rather than on getting out the news, so that 
some agencies have become "stock touts" rather 
than publicists. 

These jjractices raise deeply disturbing ques- 
tions: Does the small investor or even the small 
speculator get a fair break in the market? Does 
he have proper access to corporate news? Is he 
victimized by market riggers? When speaking 
for public consumption on these questions, 
nearly all \Vall Streeters take the position that 
(a) the market is basically honest, (b) thev are 
nonetheless concerned lest arrant speculation or 
a few -well-publicized cases of price riggint; may 
seriously shake pidilic confidence in the market. 

"You can never do a^xay ^vith the 'insiders,' 
and you can never get arotmd the fact that some 
people inevitably are going to kno^v things and 
profit from this knowledge ■while others w\\\ re- 
main in the dark," said one experienced Wall 
Street analyst. "Thus people are certainly not 
competing on eqtial terms in the stock market. 
But, nonetheless, ^vithin this framcAvork we must 
strive to make things as equitable as possible. 
In the stock market everyone should be equal, 
even though some people inevitably will be a 
little more ecjual than others." 

It Avas the great misforttuie of Dr. Irving 
Fisher, the distingtiished economist at Yale from 
1893 to 1935, to have achieved immortality ^vith 
a misjudgment. Said Dr. Fisher in 1929: "Stock 
prices haAC reached what looks like a perma- 
nently high plateau." 

Not many people talk about "permanently 
high plateaus" any more. Many Wall Street an- 
alysts currently seem to subscribe to an economic 
adaptation of Newton's law that every action 
has an equal and opposite reaction. They the- 
orize that every boom runs to excess and inev- 
itably generates some sort of "correction" or 


"The flocking of lambs into Wall Street for shearing.' 



downturn in the market. This principle places 
the analysts in something of an ambivalent posi- 
tion, to be sure, since, though Wall Street thrives 
on booms, it also knows that the greater the 
boom, the greater may be the correction. 


AT PRESENT, there are fears that Wall 
Street may be poised for a speculative 
boom of run-away proportions and that the 
"shakeout" or "correction" which will follow 
may do a great deal of damage to the investing 

There is much disagreement over what may 
trigger the "shakeout." It could be an unexpected 
diplomatic crisis in Berlin, Southeast Asia, or 
some other trouble spot; or a sudden "flood 
tide of corporate larceny"— the ruthless milking 
of corporate assets by high executives— which, 
according to J. K. Galbraith, was a factor in 
the 1929 crash; or a loss of public confidence 
due to disclosures of serious manipulation, or 
any number of other factors. If conditions were 
sufficiently sensitive, it wouldn't require too 
catastrophic an incident to set ofi: a shakeout 
since the movement of relatively few shares es- 
tablishes the prices for all shares of stock. (Only 
a small percentage of the total amount of stock 
in existence is actively traded in the market.) 
If and when a break does occur, the market 
will be proj^elled downward by a number of 
forces. For instance, insiders in companies whose 
stock has only recently been issued to the public 
—and has enjoyed great increase in value- may 
well try to unload a good part of their holdings. 
And other "paper millionaires" will no doubt 
join them. 

"Whatever the causes, however, surprisingly few 
Wall Streeters are prepared to suggest steps to 
ward off a "bust." In a society of mass affluence, 
they reason, there's little that can be done to 
prevent people from gambling away their money. 
Lifting margins or curbing the activities of non- 
regulated lenders would be of little use, they 
argue, because most of the speculation in today's 
market takes place on a cash basis. "If the 
public wants to shoot craps, there's nothing we 
ran do about it," says one high SEC official. 

There are, of course, several long-range meas- 
ures that could be taken and that have the sup- 
port of Wall Street: chiefly, increased efforts to 
educate the public in the economics of the stock 
market and in economics in general. Secondly, 
just as investors should be better informed, so 
should their brokers. The big Wall Street houses 

have done much in recent years to improve the 
caliber of their staffs. But there are still too many 
ill-prepared, ill-educated brokers in the securities 
business, who mislead their customers— if not 
cheat them. 

These are problems that must be tackled over 
the long term. On the more immediate level, 
some Wall Streeters and independent observers 
favor several short-term devices to curb the ex- 
cesses in the market: 

1. A crackdown on the advertising placed by 
some investment advisory services which make 
get-rich-quick promises. 

2. A further increase in the staffs maintained 
by the SEC and the major exchanges to watch 
for price rigging and other irregularities. 

3. Continued warnings to the public by the 
exchanges themselves— and even by officials in 
Washington— against the dangers of excessive 
speculation. (Mr. Funston issued another such 
warning in mid-May.) 

4. A greater effort at self-policing by the finan- 
cial community in general. For instance, prestige 
firms should refuse to underwrite stock offerings 
for undercapitalized and poorly managed en- 

5. A tightening of SEC rules governing new 
issues, which would require fuller disclosure 
of financial information by companies involved, 
and the certification of the accuracy of such 
information for small as well as large stock 
issues. (At present, no certification by account- 
ants is required for stock offerings of $300,000 
or less.) 

6. New legislation giving the SEC stricter 
controls over securities trading and over new is- 
sues, enabling it, for example, to bar doubtful 
companies from selling stocks to the public. 

These reforms— not to mention more radical 
proposals— are likely to run up against the laissez- 
faire instincts of the financial community. How- 
ever, there are now increased stirrings in 
Washington for Congress to take a hand in the 
regulation of the market. Whether new controls 
come from Wall Street itself or from Washington, 
there is growing recognition that something must 
be done: Having transformed the securities busi- 
ness into a truly mass market. Wall Street must 
now face the responsibilities which this change 
entails. Whether it will or not is an open, and 
urgent, question. 

Harper's Mngnzine, July 1961 



Summer is another country 


Draivings by Thomas Feelings 

EARLY this morning Danny Tracy came to 
mow the hay on my field. As he turned off 
the town road into mine, I lek rather than heard 
the ponderous tread ol his horse's great fringed 
feet on the ground, and ihe delicate creak and 
jingle of the mowing machine, for Danny is the 
only man in oiu' neighborhood who still uses a 
horse and old-fashioned rig lor heavy work. 

Still half asleep, for me the sovmd of these 
massive feet merged with the long half-dream of 
another time, another country. I was standing 
with my parents in a window overlooking a 
broad street somewhere in London and below us 
passed the slow and majestic cortege of King 
Edward the VII, and my half-sleeping eyes were 
filled once more with a sight of horses with black 
plumes growing from their foreheads, of grave- 
faced men in splendid dress, and after more than 
forty years my ears seemed still to retain the 
shuddering ruffle of velvet-covered drums. As the 
long processional unwound beneath us I heard 
my mother saying: "That must be the Tsar!" 
And my father said: "And there goes the King 
of Montenegro!" 

In my school history book there used to be a 
map of Europe, and Montenegro was the smallest 
country in it, colored a pale lavender. As a child 
I always had an idea of it as being on a scale 
with the little painted wooden people and ani- 
mals in a toy Noah's Ark, so when I gazed down 
at the scene beneath that window I expected the 
King of Montenegro to be something tiny and 
in keeping with his infinitesimal domain. The 
thud of horses' feet, the muted jingle of harness, 
drums under their covering of purple velvet- 
then I was really awake, and outside my window 
a late October sun was resuscitating a few frozen 
flies, and I could hear Danny Tracy deep in 
conversation with his horse. 

I dressed and put the kettle on for coffee and 
went outdoors. Danny had already started mov- 
ing up the field and the early light touched his 
old gray coat and the horse's pointed ears and 
made a channel of golden pallor on the fallen 
hay. What stood had a pink glow in it like the 
reflected heat from a distant fire, and as Danny 
came to the end of the field and turned, the 
starlings arrived— hundreds of them from no- 



where, black, glittering flakes which settled down 
in the fallen hay to feed on the crickets and the 
exposed seeds of summer. 

When Danny reached the steps where I stood, 
he paused to say hello and I saw the tobacco 
juice trickling down his face, which, at seventy- 
six, had taken on the color and texture of old, 
weevil-ridden wood. 

"Nice day," he said. "Wind in the nor'west, 
looks like we're in for a stretch of fine weather." 

Country people deal in the obvious as they 
deal in small coin. It is often all they possess. 

"You're late this year, Danny," I said. "I was 
beginning to wonder whether you would ever 
get around to taking the hay." 

He laid the reins on the horse's back and 
looked at me. 

"Been awful busy this fall. Hattie, she sud- 
denly got one of her spells of wanting something 
new, and nothing would do but what we got to 
put in a bathroom." He brought it out with in- 
tense deliberation, as though speaking of child- 
birth or a serious operation. "A bathroom, mind 
you. After fifty years of doing without one, she 
suddenly got to have a bathroom for no better 
reason but that Nita Merrit just got one." 

I looked at the horse, named Hero, standing 
stoically in his collar, his blond mane exactly 
the color of the hay around him. Seen in profile, 
Danny and his horse had the look of relatives- 
one perpendicular, spare as a stick, with a great 
curving nose, the other horizontal, huge, with a 
nose like a landslide, and both of them— man and 
horse, brothers in an inexhaustible patience. 

I asked Danny whom he had employed to 
install the new bathroom, and before answering 
he sent a jet of tobacco juice over the off-wheel, 
then: "Hollis Merrit from Machias. Best there 
is, and I figured we going to sink all that money 
in a drain, might as well do it right." 

Hero changed feet and flipped his long blond 
tail and Danny went on: "One reason I been so 
long getting around to your field, I been helping 
Hollis with the ditching for the bathroom drain. 
Takes two men and it ain't rightly Hollis's job 
nohow. Wasn't he's cousin to Hattie, he never 
would lay a hand to a shovel, what with his 
education and all." 

"But what about you, Danny!" I exclaimed. 

Born in India of French and English parents, 
Christine Weston married an American in 1923. 
She lives in Maine hut travels a good deal, and has 
written many stories and several novels, including 
"Indigo" and ""The Wise Children." 

"Should you be doing such hard work?" He 
looked as if he might crack in two like an old 
dried-out plank. I went on: "Can't you get one 
of the younger men around to lend a hand?" 

"Lend a hand digging a drain?" His laugh was 
toothless and interior. "You ever tried to get one 
of them young ones to do chores around here 
for you? No sir. They got other ideas, and I 
can't say that I blame them. Driving trucks or 
working at a filling station is more to their taste, 
and that's like it ought to be." 

I started to disagree, but he continued as if 
he hadn't heard: 

"Take my own two boys. Junior's with that 
bus outfit as a driver and pulling down a good 
salary, and Paul's working in a coffin factory 
over to Boston, Mass. Why should they be want- 
ing to hang around home, breaking their backs 
shoveling manure or working off their taxes 
fixing the state highways like I have to?" 

He picked up the reins and looked at me with 
tiny bright blue eyes. "You given any thought 
to what you're going to do about having the hay 
cut after I'm gone?" 

"Gone?" I echoed, uncomprehending. "Where 
in the world are you planning to go, Danny?" 

He laughed and slapped the reins on Hero's 
broad back. 

"Well, we all got a choice between one of two 
places, ain't we? Guess I've lived a good clean 
life, so I ain't worrying too much." 

He spoke to Hero, who turned massively, 
drawing the light machine after him, and I 
watched them start another swath, disturbing the 
starlings which rose as one, described a glittering 
circle over Danny's head, then sank like a black 
snow storm in the leveled hay. 

IW E N T into the house and made breakfast 
and carried my coffee cup to the window 
where I could see Danny and his big brown horse 
move up and down the long golden field, and I 
pondered what he had said, asking myself what, 
indeed, I would do when he was gone. Ours is 
not a wealthy or fashionable part of the world 
and labor is scarce and for the most part un- 
skilled. Men and women of Danny's generation 
and a little younger grew up in an age when 
there were few if any mechanical devices. They 
worked with their hands and with animals. As 
he said, their children have other ideas, and it 
is typical of a man like Danny, who knows well 
the rigors of adversity, to desire a different his- 
tory for his sons. 

When I walk through our little town or drive 
along these country roads, it is always the 




— ^, H^- 

elderly men that I see doing the 
hard work— straightening heavy 
granite sills, raising chimneys, 
painting barns, carpentering, 
digging, planting, sawing. They 
have the know-how and they 
move as Danny moves, with de- 
liberation, aware without senti- 
mentality or regret that there 
is no hurry about anything, any 

When he had made a good 
start on my field, Danny drove 
the mower up beside my steps 
and got down and stretched, 
then sat beside me in the sun 
and drank a cup of coffee while 
Hero bent his great nose into 
the pail of water I had remem- 
bered to draw for him at the 
kitchen sink. 

"Good to see the hay come down," I said, look- 
ing out on the level sweep of the field which 
glistened in the sun. "When it's all cleared, it 
seems to hold the winter back a little. Things 
look more the way they do in spring, before the 
grass has begun to grow." 

Danny sucked the coffee between his three re- 
maining teeth and said: 

"Before you bought this place I used to mow it 
sometimes, for Asa Merrit. Always been good 
friends, Asa and me, but I never did get along 
with his wife Nita. Don't to this day, and prob- 
ably never will." 

I asked what had caused the trouble, and he 
gave his sibilant, almost inaudible laugh. "I 
suppose that in a way it were my fault, though 
I'd as soon be shot as let Nita think so. All hap- 
pened on account of her cat." 

HERO finished drinking and fluttered his 
velvety lips in a great sigh of satisfaction, 
and Danny went on: "Nita Merrit always was 
kind of soft in the head about them darned cats 
of hers. Ever noticed how some women get that 
way? Over cats, I mean. You don't hardly ever 
see a man make a fool of himself over cats. Over 
dogs yes, maybe over horses." He gazed for a 
moment at Hero, who stood before us staring 
thoughtfully at the ground. 

"But not over cats," Danny said. "Or at any 
rate / never see a man go plumb crazy over a 
cat the way some women do." He tucked a 
fresh quid of tobacco into his cheek and con- 
tinued: "Nita always owned cats and does to this 
day, as you know. Well, it must of been . . . how 

old's my boy Paul? Going on thirty. Must of 
been twelve years ago it happened. Nita had a 
whole raft of cats then, but her favorite, or so 
she made it out to be at the time, was a big ugly 
brindled tom with one eye but plenty of every- 
thing else. Spent his time getting all the other 
cats in the neighborhood into trouble. Anyways, 
he was a great hunter. He'd kill anything from 
mice to rabbits, but Nita— she claimed she loved 
all animals, only cats the most— Nita held out 
that that darned yellow tom of hers, he wouldn't 
hurt a flea. No more he did, I bet— he was full 
of 'em." 

Danny chewed meditatively for a moment. 
"You know how some parents are apt to be 
about a worthless kid? The more worthless and 
no-account, the more they dotes on him. Well, 
that's the way Nita Merrit was about that 
brindled tom. She lived in mortal fear something 
would happen to him when he was off on one of 
his safaris up and down the road. Why, that 
cat'd learned that when the hay's cut all kind of 
small humble critters suddenly comes to the sur- 
face and the birds come down to feed on 'em. 
Minute he heard Hero and me coming down the 
road he'd take after us. No matter if we was go- 
ing a mile, or two miles, every time I looked back 
over my shoulder there was Nita's yellow tom 
loping along, enough murder in his one eye as 
would have done for twenty normal cats. When 
time come to cut the hay, there was Nita stand- 
ing on her doorstep hollering for me to wait until 
she got the tom into the house. Sometimes she 
did, sometimes he was too smart for her and was 
up the road and ahead of us. It most drove Nita 



out of her mind because she was afeard he'd get 
lost in the long hay and my cutter-bar would 
shear the legs often him. Or else Hero would 
step on him. She made me swear I never would 
start mowing without first letting her know so 
she'd be sure to have that maneater tucked safely 
in his crib, the little darling. Goddam him." 

Danny chewed his cud, and I listened to the 
crickets ticking in the frcsh-cui grass. Danny 
went on: 

"One day I came doAvn here to mow as 
usual, and I guess I must of had something on 
my mind because so help me 1 clean forgot to 
warn Nita I was coming, and wouldn't you know 
it would be just that one day it had to happen? 
I never even see that old \ellow cat stalking the 
starlings until the cutter-bar was right atop of 
him, and then it was too late." Danny looked 
at me gravely. "I'd always heard tell that a cat 
has nine lives, and that was one time when I 
wished it had been true. But that poor darned 
cat was a goner the minute the cutter-bar went 
into him, and I had to break the news to Nita 
myself because Asa said he'd be shot if he 

"What happened then?" I asked, thinking of 
Nita Merrit, big-bosomed, fierce-eyed and vocal, 
mother of eight children and an untold number 
of cats. 

Danny was silent a moment, then: "Don't 
know as you ever heard— you ain't been here too 
long— but my boy Paul had been going with 
Nita's daughter Ann Marie ever since they was 
in grade school together. It was one of those 
things don't often happen in real life, but we all 
knew— that is. Hatiie and I kncnv. Asa and Nita 
knew, all our friends knew, that those kids meant 
everything to each other. Of course they'd have 
to have waited until they was both out of school, 
but everybody understood how it was going to be 
between them— until the day my cutter-bar got 
Nita's brindled tom, and I had to carry him back 
dead in my handkerchief, and the moment I 
laid that defunct cat on her doorstep, that was it. 
Accident or no accident didn't make no differ- 
ence to her. I'm telling you, if I'd sawed the legs 
off Nita herself, it couldn't have been more ter- 
rible the way she carried on." 

"And the kids?" I asked. 'AVhat happened to 

"Nita broke it up. She sent Ann Marie away 
to live with relatives in New Jersey, and she 
scared Hattie and me so with her threats, we pre- 
vailed on Paul to try and forget all about it." 
Danny sighed. "I don't know now but what we 
made a big mistake. Paul was always the quiet 

kind and he made out like he was taking the 
whole thing sensibly, but the day Ann Marie 
went away, he swallowed the poison which I al- 
ways kept in the barn, against rats, and he like to 
have died. Oh, he got over it, and now he's mar- 
ried to someone else and got two kids and I guess 
he don't waste much time brooding over Ann 
Marie Merrit. Though I don't know. Comes 
over me once in a while, you feel strongly 
enough to try to kill yourself over something, it 
must kind of stay ^vith you one way and another, 
the rest of your life." 

AL L day I could see Danny mowing the 
lia\. ;iii(l then it was finished and lay flat 
and shining in the sun, and he raked it into 
windrows and jiitched it into the haycart on 
which he'd put okl automobile tires, and I 
watched him working, a lean old man in shabby 
clothes, old but still lithe, and when the hay was 
piled in the cart the field emerged strange and 
green as in early summer, and presently I saw 
Danny walking toward the house carrying some- 
thing in his hand and smiling in a pleased sort 
of way. 

I went down the steps to meet him and he 
held out the object— a silver watch, stained and 
tarnished, but with its glass intact. 

"Found this right where I must have dropped 
it," he said. "Been calculating, and I figure it 
was in the fall of 1940, just before we got into 
the war." 

The watch had stopped at 12:30 and the main- 
spring was gone, but Danny gazed at it fondly. 
"My uncle sentme that watch from Switzerland 
year Hattie and I was married, and I felt real 
bad when I lost it. Hunted everywhere for it, 
and I must have combed this field inch by inch 
at the time, but never did find it. Then today 
when I was lifting a pitchfork of hay back there 
halfAvay acrost your field, I see the light hit some- 
thing and it gave back a great spark, like it was 
trying to catch my eye— and there it lay where it 
been lying for going on nineteen years!" 

"Suppose you can have it fixed so it ^vill run?" 
I asked, but he shook his head. 

"^\'ouIdn't hardly be worth it. And anyway, 
there will always be one time of day when it'll be 
telling the light time. Guess I'd rather leave it 
at that." 

He clambered into the cart and almost dis- 
appeared in the great fragrant mass, and I stood 
and Avatched two seasons mo\'e away down my 
little road, and I could hear the starlings, hun- 
dreds of them, feeding in the young, frail green 
of next year's grass. 

Hnrjier's Magazine, July 1961 




From the Andes to the Caribbean, a new 

generation of able and angry young leaders 

is battling against stupid and corrupt 

governments as well as poverty. . . . A new kind 

of help could insure victory on both fronts. 

UNDER ihe shock of the Cuban fiasco last 
April, Congress anted up the first §600- 
million installment on President Kennedy's Plan 
for Latin America. This coming month the 
American Republics \\ill meet in Uruguay to 
submit their proposals on how to use the money. 
If the Kennedy Plan works out— and the Cuban 
affair was not the ideal send-off— it will rival the 
|13 billion and six years of the Marshall Plan 
that restored Western Europe. 

But the aim of the Kennedy Plan is a much more 
ambitious one. It is not to restore, but to build 
something brand-new: a Latin America capable 
of attaining by its own efforts both rapid eco- 
nomic growth and social justice. This would 
mean a real, though peaceful, revolution through- 
out an entire continent of t^vo hundred million 
people. Therefore its success will depend less 
on American money than on what Latin America 
can and will do for herself. 

Money cannot buy the most essential develop- 
ment resource of the Americas: genuine patriots, 
free of both the callous indifference of the old 
"ruling classes," and of the impassioned jingoism 
of the self-styled "intellectuals." Industrializa- 
tion, though vital, is not enough by itself; unless 
it is paralleled by major advances in agriculture 
and public service, it distorts as much as it de- 

At the root of the profound crisis of Latin 
America— of which Castro's Cuba is a symptom 

rather than a cause— is not economic stagnation 
but exactly the opposite: the stresses and strains 
of the most rapid economic growth anywhere in 
the world today. The continuing demands for 
faster and faster economic development arise 
less out of a desire for a higher standard of living 
than as a protest against age-old social injustices, 
injustices inherited in large part from conquista- 
dor and colonial viceroy, if not from Inca and 

Because Latin America has been growing so 
fast economically, it presents a major opportu- 
nity to U.S. policy. No other part of the underde- 
veloped world is so close to the "take-off point," 
the point at which economic gro^vth becomes 
self-sustaining. But the very speed of the advance 
has created social and political Avhirlwinds that 
threaten to blow Latin America off her shaky 
eighteenth-century foundations. 

Venezuela, Peru, Ecuador— perhaps even 
Mexico— might have gone "fidelista" these last 
twelve months, if it hadn't been for Fidel Castro 
himself. His strutting, his oppression of the mid- 
dle class, and his suppression of all liberties- 
above all, his clumsy interference in other Latin 
American countries— lost him a good many of his 
earlier admirers, including even many pro-Com- 
munists. But the ills which lead to "fidcJismo" 
are, of course, still there, untreated, let alone un- 


MOST of Latin America is, of course, desper- 
ately poor. Most of it is "underdeveloped." But 
the fact that half the Latin American people 
still live as their fathers did is much less signifi- 
cant than the fact that the other half have been 



living in a tremendous industrial boom these last 
ten or fifteen years. Nowhere in the world has 
economic growth been faster than in Puerto 
Rico; in Mexico City and Monterrey; in Cali and 
Medellin, the two industrial cities of Colombia; 
around Lima, Peru; and in Brazil's "industrial 
triangle" between Rio, Belo Horizonte, and Sao 
Paulo. In some of these areas, growth rates of 10 
])er cent a year and more have been common- 
place. * 

This boom has j^roduced a new economic 
strength. Only a decade ago a collapse of com- 
modity prices would have crushed every Latin 
American economy; and all (excepting Mexico) 
are still dependent on the exjjort of one— or at 
most two— commotli ties, such as coffee, petroleum, 
or copper. Although in the past few years com- 
modity prices fell as fast and almost as far as they 
did during the depression, onh Bolivia's econ- 
omy broke down (and there chiefly because of 
mismanagement of the nationalized— and almost 
exhausted— tin mines). A good many countries- 
Peru, Mexico, Colombia, and to some degree 
even coffee-dependent Brazil— managed to keep 
growing. And exccj)t for those in Cuba that have 
been confiscated by Castro, the manufacturing 
companies in Latin America that I know of are 
doing well. 

Socially, the boom is creating a middle class. 
No longer are the rich getting richer and the 
poor getting poorer. During the last ten or fif- 
teen years, the biggest gains have been made by 
a new urban middle class of skilled \\'orkers, small 
businessmen, clerks, technicians, j^rofessionals, 
and managers. The Brazilian worker, to be sure, 
does not drive to the plant in an automobile; he 
is lucky to get a seat on an overcrowded bus. Yet 
in the ghastly traffic jams that tie up Rio and Sao 
Paulo every morning and evening, the million- 
aires' Cadillacs are vastly outnumbered by the 
grocers' battered Ford half-trucks and the 
mechanics' Volkswagens. Nor do millionaires or 
big landowners occupy all the t;dl apartment 
houses that are shooting up like mushrooms in 
every Latin American city, from Monterrey in the 
North to Santiago de Chile in the South. 

Perhaps the most convincing evidence of the 
social change is the fact that the 150,000 Cuban 
refugees, with few exceptions, are of the new 

* Only Argentina and Chile— paradoxically the 
countries with the highest standard of living, the 
highest literacy, and the largest middle class— have 
not advan(ecl. The ff)nncr was so systematically 
plundered under Pcron that years f>f hard work will 
be needed to biiiig it back to where it was twenty 
years ago. 

middle class. In some Latin Anurican (oinurics 
the middle class is already large enough lo sup- 
port a number of muiu.d iiu'estment trusts hold- 
ing local securities— something unimaginable 
thirty years ago. Latin America is the oidv ))art 
of the world, other than Russia, wheie the luuu- 
ber of doctors is increasing lasier than the l>op- 
ulation. Too many Indian villages in Peru still 
have no school at all. But the Uiiiversitv of 
Cuzco, 12,000 feet uj) in the Ancles, is packed 
with eager Indian youngsters who come from 
schools that did not exist twenty years ago. Their 
parents still live, illiterate, in the Early Bronze 

And change has been greatest in arens the 
economist does not count as "income" or "nut- 
put": the widening of the horizon through the 
movie, the ubiquitous radio, and (iiureasingly) 
the TV set; the new mobility created bv dirt 
roads, trucks, buses, and (increasingly) airplanes; 
the ne^v access to education. These new ways of 
living have made their greatest impact in the 
poorest city shuns and in sharecroppers' shanties. 

At the same ' time, a growing imbalance 
between advancing industry and stagnant 
agriculture has lured into the cities masses of 
the poorest and least skilled peasants. This new 
proletariat has created a major social problem. 
As a result of the new economic growth and 
social mobility, social injustices hitherto taken 
for granted are no longer bearable. Old slogans 
and even older alignments can no longer produce 
})olitical leadership and power. 

The Latin American industrial worker, espe- 
cially in the many small shops, is poorly equipped 
and trained, and rarely well managed. He turns 
out an average of SI, 500 worth of goods a )ear. 
This is no more than a fifth of the U.S. figure, 
and just about half that of northern Italy. But 
it is twice what it was fifteen years ago. By con- 
trast, the Latin American farmer turns out only 
S300 worth of stuff a year— a little less than he 
produced fifteen years ago. 

The immediate economic result is a growing 
food shortage. The Latin American, who is much 

Peter F. Driicker has averaged more than one 
trip a year to Latin America in the past decade. As 
a management consultant to American business, he 
has worked ivith Latin American affiliates of U.S. 
companies and with Latin American government 
agencies and universities. As an admirer of pre- 
Inca and Inca civilizations, he has found his favorite 
recreation in the mountains of Peru. Mr. Drucker's 
many hooks include "Landmarks of Tomorrow" 
and "The New Society." 



better supplied with manufactured goods of all 
kinds, is getting less to eat. Population has 
doubled since 1940. Food supply has not kept 
step. A good many model farms and plantations 
have proved that Latin American agriculture can 
produce high yields. But on the whole, the yields 
have not improved for a century and are now 
among the lowest in the world. In every Latin 
American country (except Mexico perhaps) agri- 
cultural stagnation increasingly offsets industrial 
gains, and food deficits increasingly threaten an 
already precarious balance of payments. 

Yet, contrary to popular belief, the land is not 
now overpopulated. As Felipe Herrera, the 
Chilean director of the Inter-American Develop- 
ment Bank, puts it: Latin America's problem 
is not "the distribution of land among people 
but of people on the land." The interiors of 
Ecuador and Venezuela are empty, and so is the 
Brazilian west. 

Although the big city sucks in peasants, in- 
dustry in Latin America employs only one-eighth 
of the work force— less than half the U.S. pro- 
portion. But 40 per cent of the population— 
almost the same ratio as in the U.S.— lives in 
cities of over 500,000. Mexico City is as large 
as Chicago— around six million. Sao Paulo, Rio, 
and Buenos Aires have around four million each. 
Bogota, Caracas, Havana, Lima, Montevideo, and 
Santiago are all well above the million mark. 
All these metropolitan areas have at least doubled 
since World War II. 

But there is little work for these largely un- 
skilled and illiterate millions. Many do not speak 
the Spanish or Portuguese of the city but their 
own Indian tongues. The inrush has been so 
great that it would have overwhelmed even much 
richer cities. Housing, water, schools, trans- 
portation, and sewers are lacking, but one sees 
radio aerials on orange-crate and oil-can shacks, 
palm-frond shanties, and hillside caves which 
ring the magnificent bay of Rio de Janeiro. It 
is small wonder that the slums smolder with 
deep, sullen resentment in the shadow of gleam- 
ing factories and apartment houses. And the 
countryside also smolders. It is this discontent, 
of course, to which Castro appealed in Cuba, 
as well as in the rest of the continent. The 
revolt of the " carnpesi )ws"— whether still on the 
land or in the city slums— is, in origin, a pop- 
ulist revolt: against the city and the "bankers," 
against a stupid and corrupt government that 
does nothing for the poor but tax them. In this 
mood of despair the new proletariat is receptive 
to the siren songs of the demagogue. Today's 
siren does not ^voo them merely with a Cross-of- 

Gold speech. He i dies also on secret police, guns, 
and support from "big brother" in Moscow. 

Even the oldest Latin .\merican hand sees 
all this. What he fails to see or to under- 
stand are the new men who are the products of 
both economic advance and social injustice. Yet 
these are the new leaders who will decide which 
way Latin America will go. 


TE N years ago the president of a large 
South American business— a very gracious, 
well-educated liberal of the old school— con- 
gratulated himself publicly on having quite a 
few executives of middle-class origin in the com- 
pany. "Just imagine," he said, "the father of our 
chief engineer, Pedro Sanchez, was a mailman in 
a small town!" Today not even the worst moss- 
back would comment on this phenomenon. Social 
mobility is invading the most exclusive sanctu- 
aries of the old order (such as that citadel of 
"aristocracy," the Club Nacional in Lima). 

Politics shows this clearly. Traditionally, poli- 
tics in Latin America had long been reserved 
for the large landowner, the lawyer, professor- 
journalist, and general. But Brazil's last presi- 
dent, Kubitschek, was a surgeon and the son of a 
Czech immigrant. The new mayor of Sao Paulo, 
Prestes Maia, is an architect; and so is the odds-on 
favorite in this year's presidential election in 
Peru, Fernando Belaunde Terry. 

These new and amazingly capable men (and 
there are many of them) are young and they are 
angry. iVIost of them came up the hard way. 
They know from personal experience what life 
is like on the sidewalk and in the peon's shack. 
They burn with hatred for the injustices, the 
senseless waste, the indignity and suffering in 
which they grew up and in which ilieir parents, 
brothers, and cousins still live. 

They know too that it need not be like this. 
They have seen what economic development can 
do; and they no longer are philosophically re- 
signed to their society. .\s a result, they are 
terribly impatient with the economist, the 
banker, the diplomat, who talk of j^ayments bal- 
ances, business confidence, and capital accumula- 
tion, rather than of people, their needs, and 
their potentials. 

Because the new men fuse economic develop- 
ment and social justice, they are rapidly winning 
political leadership. They are backed, as a rule, 
l)y neither of the two traditional power centers 
—the military iind ihc jjoliiical machines. But 
the traditional political structures, their slogans. 



and leaders are becoming obsolete— precisely be- 
cause, if "conservative," they stress only economic 
development and, if "radical," they stress only 
social justice. But today the people of Latin 
America demand both. Even the poorest now 
know how other, more fortunate people live. 
Social justice is no longer a millennial hope. 
It is the Sears store on the city's outskirts where 
even Indians are served courteously. It is the 
peon's son who owns a chain of service stations, 
buys a Fiat, and sends his boys to college. It is 
the eight-story anny hospital where, rumor has 
it, even a common soldier lies on sheets. As a 
result, economic development is measured by 
the people— and by their new leaders— by what 
it fails to do rather than by what it does. It is 
measured by the yardstick of social justice— and 
found wanting. 


SO T H E main job ahead in Latin America 
is political— to make economic growth spur 
social justice, and to make the hunger for justice 
hurry up the process of growth. For even the 
greatest economic success will be wasted unless 
the political and social structure of the con- 
tinent is fundamentally changed. 

The economic prescription itself is fairly ob- 
vious. Industry must be built up fast, because 
millions of people must have jobs which only 
industry can supply. Equally needed is a rapid 
increase in farm output, to close the food gap. 
^Ve know perfectly well how to do both of these 
things. The money is available. The difficulties 
in using it— in the right places, at the right 
time— will be political, not economic. 

The double job will cost, roughly, S20 billion 
a year, for the next five years. At least 90 per 
cent of this money will have to come from the 
Latin Americans themselves. They can find it, 
if they really try. It would still be a smaller 
share of Latin American income than the amount 
India— a much poorer country— plows into her 
Five-year Plans. And in the boom areas of Latin 
.\merica new capital is being formed faster than 
almost any place else in the world. The trouble 
is that too much of the new capital is being 
wasted in real-estate speculation, and too many 
of the rich still pay practically no taxes 

A common-sense and hard-handed reform of 
the Latin American tax laws can do much to 
(ure both of these evils. (In Venezuela it is 
already under way.) And until such reforms are 
carried out, Latin America can hardly hope to 

get much public aid from the United States. 
How can our taxpayers be expected to rescue 
these countries, so long as their own rich people 
rarely pay any income tax at all? 

The remaining 10 per cent— or about $2 
billion a year— will have to come from the out- 
side. Not more than half of this should come 
from the U.S. government. Europe, Japan, the 
World Bank, private investors, and export sur- 
pluses, are perfectly capable of the rest. 

How this money is allocated will be a matter 
of the utmost delicacy and importance. If private 
investment flows to the wrong places, it may 
well do more harm than good— and the same 
thing is true of money from public agencies. 
Here are a few basic facts which the planners 
ought to keep in mind: 

1. Any nation will be uneasy if too large a 
share of its resources and industry are controlled 
by foreigners— as we have learned in Cuba, Can- 
ada, and Mexico. 

2. Latin Americans are particularly sensitive 
about foreign ownership of their oil, electric 
utilities, telephone systems, and railroads; and 
because of long-continued, patient Marxist prop- 
aganda, millions of people in the Southern 
Hemisphere are convinced that investment in 
these fields by foreign companies— "capitalist im- 
perialists, ' in the Marxist jargon— is especially 

3. On the other hand, they welcome foreign 
investment in manufacturing and distribution. 
The great majority of such investments (many 
of them from Europe) have proved mutually sat- 
isfactory. "Partnership" enterprises, in which 
local citizens own a considerable part of the 
stock, have been almost immune from political 
attack. Although the "partnership" device is 
not always feasible, it should at least be con- 
sidered by anyone planning to invest in Latin 

4. There simply is not enough capital in the 
world to industrialize all of the underdeveloped 
countries— African and Asian, as well as Latin 
American— as rapidly as they would like. There- 
fore, every penny of foreign investment should 
be put in the places where it will do the most 
good. One way to accomplish this with a min- 
imum of pain and political uproar will be men- 
tioned in a moment. 

5. Foreign investment— public or private— can 
be effective only in those countries whose govern- 
ments have enough courage to do some extremely 
unpopular things; and enough political strength 
and ingenuity to get them accepted by public 



For example, every country in Latin America 
now has a crisis in fuel, electric energy, and 
transport. In Argentina, admittedly the worst 
case, up to one-third of the harvest is lost for 
want of locomotives or locomotive fuel. A shoe 
factory in Rosario had to shut down five out 
of every eight working hours last year, because 
of power failures. And in Brazil, high shipping 
costs have priced many common commodities- 
paper, for instance, and edible oils— out of the 
mass market. 

A main reason for all this is that the in- 
dustries concerned are politically sensitive. The 
Argentine government has not yet dared to lay 
off the hordes of Peron's political appointees, 
who still hold about half the railway jobs. Be- 
cause it is politically dangerous to raise utility 
rates anywhere, they are still pegged at pre-infla- 
tion levels, in spite of a ten- or twenty-fold rise 
in other prices. Consequently, the utility com- 
panies (whether owned locally or by foreign 
investors) have rarely made a nickel in the last 
five years— and therefore they can't get the capital 
for new equipment, to meet a doubling of the 
population and a four-fold growth in demand. 

But solutions can be found Avhich arc politi- 
cally feasible, as Argentina has recently dem- 
onstrated in its oil industry. Ownership of oil 
properties will remain with the state, but ex- 
ploration and management will be handled by 
foreign companies, making a fair but attr.'.ctive 
profit. In similar fashion, devices might he found 
for lending public money (perhaps from the 
World Bank) to rehabilitate railroad beds— some 
of which have had neither maintenance nor 
new equipment for thirty years— while private 
capital is used to purchase new cars and loco- 

Similar political courage will be needed to 
step up production in agriculture. AVhat is 
needed is such familiar items as farm credit, rural 
roads, co-ops, farm agents to teach new methods, 
improved seed, fertilizer, and power. Rut before 
these can be effective, two big political obsta- 
cles have to be cleared away: 

A. Land reform is needed in some— though 
by no means all— parts of Latin America. Espe- 
cially in the fertile central valley of Tlhile and 
in the northwestern "Bulge" of Brazil, the big 
feudal estates need to be split up into family- 
sized farms. In more areas, tiny, marginal farms- 
split up every time they have been handed down 
from a father to his sons for many generations 
—need to be consolidated. 

B. Some traditional crops have to be aban- 
doned. Coffee in central Brazil is sacred, as much 

a way of life as cotton was in our pre-Civil War 
South. Yet half o' the coffee land has deterio- 
rated so badly that it should be switched im- 
mediately into grains, livestock, or timber. To 
cite one more instance out of many, unimjjroved 
corn has been the traditional crop in southern 
Mexico since Aztec days; until it is abandoned 
for more productive crops, no increase in farm 
yields and income is possible. 

So far, however, no Mexican government has 
dared tackle this problem, and no Brazilian 
politician has even hinted that King Coffee's 
throne is shaky. Meddling with land tenure or 
traditional crops is always dangerous, everywhere 
—as our own politicians know only too well. 

NEED FOR "spectaculars" 

D(^ Z E N S of sound programs are being 
worked on in Latin America— for housing, 
education, farm credit, or public health. But 
they take forever to show results. Meanwhile 
the people perish for lack of vision. We must 
accept the fact that uniform development of the 
entire continent is not possible. The small coun- 
tries will move only if the big ones do well. 
Hence development j)rojects in the small coun- 
tries are not likely to be fruitful. After all, over 
two-thirds of Latin America's population lives 
in four countries: Brazil, Mexico, .Argentina, and 
Colombia. Of the others only the three mineral 
producers, Venezuela, Peru, and Chile (ac- 
counting together for an additional 15 per cent 
of the continent's population), can ever be eco- 
nomically viable. Indeed, in the case of Chile, 
the greatest development contribution would 
be the long-discussed Latin American Common 
Market which would provide customers for 
Chile's large steel capacity. 

Within the bigger countries, "spectaculars" 
are needed, big projects which catch tlic peoj)le's 
imagination. A lot of little projects cannot do 
this. Economically, it is true, such "spectacidars" 
may be questionable. But so was T\''.'\ in 19.84. 
So also was Puerto Rico's "Operation Bootstrap" 
when it started during World ^Var II. Yet it has 
given this desperately poor island proportion- 
ately the liiglicst industrial employment and the 
highest labor income in Latin America. 

Here are a few "spectaculars" worth pon- 

• The "Bulge" of Brazil might become a 
model farming region. Today it looks very much 
like our Souih around 19.S3: thirty million peo- 
ple living in semicolonial dej:)endence on run- 
down, eroded, and drought-stricken land. Five 



lo eight years of concentrated effort could estab- 
lish there, for instance: one model farm to every 
five hundred or one thousand farmers; one decent 
co-op— supplying marketing, purchasing, credit, 
and technical advice— for every one to two thou- 
sand farms; primitive networks of rural roads 
and rural power; one county agent for every two 
to five thousand farm families; and finally five 
hundred small plants processing local products 
or producing simple consumer goods and farm 
supplies. This takes hard work— but it is feasible. 

• Chile could meet its oTvn food requirements 
in five years— without much difficulty. It has 
land, the climate, even some of the skills. What 
is called for is intelligent land reform Avhich gives 
the cidtivator an incentive to improve the land 
plus roads, marketing co-ops, and rural credit. 

In Chile— and in neighboring Peru as well- 
modest investments in fishing and fish processing 
would yield a rapidly improved diet. The cool 
offshore waters are teeming with sea food, w^hile 
the people's diet is desperately short of proteins. 
Or, we might concentrate in the coastal desert 
of Peru all our efforts to de-salt sea ^vater and 
produce electricity in atomic reactors. AVater is 
so valuable to this excellent but completely arid 
land that atomic power and de-salted water 
would be economical, even at today's costs. And 
millions of Indians in the Andes are desper- 
ate for land. 

• And in oil-rich but job-poor Venezuela ^\e 
might try a repetition of the Puerto Rican story— 
an organized development effort through private 
industry, aimed at doubling national income 
and increasing factory jobs ten-fold in a decade. 

These are illustrations only— and not neces 
sarily the right ones. (Perhaps I have put too 
much stress on needs; in terms of opportunity, 
Colombia might well deserve top priority.) But 
the principle is clear: money, skill, and man- 
power should be focused on a few heroic tasks 
that fire the imagination and show what can be 
done. They must not be frittered away by spread- 
ing them thin over the whole enormous area. 


IX THE last analysis, Latin America will 
develop as it shifts from dependence on others 
to dependence on itself. Social justice is not a 
matter of money but of will, not a problem for 
the economist but a task for the patriot, requir- 
ing leadership and community action rather 
than investment. 

When the preseni president of Brazil, 
Janio Quadros, was mayor of Sao Paulo 

a few years back, he transformed the city by 
clearing slums, building roads, sewers, water 
mains, putting buses on the streets. And yet he 
left the place— which was bankrupt when he took 
over— debt-free and with a surplus. Doria Felisa 
Rincon de Gautier, the remarkable woman mayor 
of San Juan, Puerto Rico, has ^vroiight similar 
miracles. These f^vo work quite differently— 
Quadros with cold, dedicated brilliance, Doiia 
Felisa as an unmistakably feminine La Guardia. 
But both have shown how much can be done 
without waiting for outside help. 

In Colombia, the Coffee Growers' Federation is 
tackling rural problems without a cent of gov- 
ernment money or foreign aid. The farmers 
are taught to reap more and better coffee from 
only a selected part of their— usually— tiny hold- 
ings. The rest of their land is put into better- 
paying crops such as bananas, cacao, and oil 
seeds. Above all, the Federation is trying to 
educate future farmers by building elementary 
schools in isolated mountain regions and sup- 
porting a 4-H Club program. 

In neighboring Venezuela, the new democratic 
government through its land-development pro- 
gram in 1959 and f960 made owner-farmers out 
of 90,000 former tenants, farm laborers, and 
ex-farmers— almost one-tenth of the country's en- 
tire population. As a result, Venezuela no longer 
needs to import such major staples as rice, 
corn, and cotton. This took money, to be sure; 
but even more important were the opening of 
new land to cidtivation; providing seed, advice, 
and intelligent plans; building a co-operative 
marketing system. 

There are plenty of lesser examples. In Peru, 
for instance, an American priest. Father Daniel 
McLellan, six years ago, founded the first credit 
union with a capital of a himdred dollars. It has 
noA\' loaned over a million dollars without a 
single default. And five thousand of the poorest 
Peruvians have made down payments on decent 

These encouraging situations are not, however, 
typical. The present Peruvian Congress— consid- 
ered rather "leftish"— closes the door to American 
aid by refusing to adopt land and tax reforms 
which are much less radical than those McKin- 
ley's Republican Congress imposed on newly- 
annexed Puerto Rico sixty years ago. Progress 
is slowed not only by vested interests but by 
heritage of a colonial past when even the least 
change had to await a decision by the viceroy, 
or a distant king in Madrid. Now that there is 
no viceroy, the tendency is to wait for Uncle Sam. 

For instance, a visiting Yankee (a prominent 



Catholic layman) was recently harangued by 
South America's most progressive Catholic bishop 
about his parishioners' terrible housing, ignor- 
ance, filth, illiteracy, and disease. 

"What does the diocese do about these things?" 
the visitor asked. 

"We do anything?" the bishop replied. "My 
question is: What are you in New York and 
Washington going to do about our conditions 

Fortunately all over Latin America the old 
crust of colonial custom and inertia is being 
cracked by younger leaders who don't know that 
impatience is impolite. But for development to 
be fast and effective— and, above all, for it to 
come in freedom rather than in totalitarian 
tyranny— the new men must persuade the Latin 
American to ask: What can I do? rather than: 
What do I need? 


WHAT could and should the United 
States do in and for Latin America? 
Economically, not too much. But politically, 
we might make all the difference. Latin America 
will be expensive for the American taxpayer. 
But it will cost much more if it collapses into 
revolution and dictatorship than if it grows to 
stability and prosperity. Substantial funds should 
be committed for five or ten years for a develop- 
ment program, particularly for the "spectaculars." 
Small sums should be invested as seed money in 
many ventures like rural co-ops, savings-and-loan 
associations, and railroad rolling stock. Quick 
financial blood transfusions will continue to be 
needed in acute emergencies— such as a sharp 
sudden drop in the price of a chief export staple, 
the "austerity crisis" that always occurs during 
a fight against inflation, or a major natural catas- 
trophe such as the Chilean earthquake last year. 
Latin America will also continue to need U.S. 
government guarantees for export credits. 

As noted earlier, the total burden on our gov- 
ernment will come to roughly a billion dollars 
a year— but the actual outflow of cash need not be 
anything like that big. Surplus food will account 
for a good part, while much of the rest will flow 
back through the purchase of American ma- 
chinery and other goods. 

We must also provide something scarcer than 
money: trained people. Illiteracy in Latin 
America is due not so much to lack of school- 
houses as to lack of teachers. J. P. Grace recently 
proposed that the U.S. train two thousand Latin 
Americans a year to teach in elementary schools. 

This would cost around $6 million annually. 
But it might double the literacy rate in rural 
areas within ten years. A modest training pro- 
gram for agricultural extension teachers might 
have an even greater impact. 

Still scarcer than teachers are capable man- 
agers for business, irrigation districts, school- 
construction programs, co-operatives. One way 
to provide them is through a "management con- 
tract" with a foreign business, university, or 
labor union (under which foreigners manage 
while ownership remains in the country). This is 
how, for instance, Brazil's growing steel industry 
was developed. A management contract is not 
philanthropy. The faster the foreign contractor 
works himself out of a job by training his own 
successors, the better it should pay. Such con- 
tracts could offer attractive opportunities to 
some of our large corporations and make it 
profitable for them to hire and train capable 
young men. Three years of running a school- 
construction program in the Andes might do 
more to make a top-flight manager out of a 
young engineer than any number of courses in 
advanced management. 


TH E traditional tools of "foreign aid"— 
money and trained men— will never do the 
job until Latin Americans face up to the tough 
things which they alone can do: collect taxes 
from the rich and clean out the sinecure jobs 
in the swollen government services; push through 
land reform and cheap mass housing; stop sub- 
sidizing the wrong crops; get rid of the petti- 
fogging regulations that now separate the indi- 
vidual states of Brazil by mountains of red tape; 
enforce the factory and mining-inspection laws 
already on the statute books; and say "no" to the 
blackmail of the generals who habitually threaten 
to overthrow a regime unless they get a few 
more unneeded jet planes, tanks, or destroyers. 
Only the Latin Americans can mobilize their 
own trained manpower, now often pitifully im- 
der-used. They have men as good as any we can 
muster: Argentina's Raul Prebisch, Peru's 
Romulo Ferrero, Chile's Felipe Herrera, or the 
West Indian Arthur W. Lewis, the greatest 
authority on rural development in the tropics. 
Other experts (and many younger men) have 
been boxed in by the pettiness of local politics; 
by the snobbery of local society; or simply by the 
conviction of their elders that everything worth- 
while comes from Paris or a German university. 



So our greatest contribution to the develop- 
ment of Latin America will be to make high 
demands, with teeth in them. This, of course, is 
"interference." But giving or investing money 
in an underdeveloped country is interference 
anyhow— the only question is: To what end? We 
must make sure that we interfere on the side of 
Latin America's future. 

How can we do this without arousing insuper- 
able resentment and resistance? 

The answer, I think, lies in a great (though 
almost unknown) American invention. We in- 
vented it as part of the Marshall Plan, which 
never could have worked without it. It was the 
European Economic Organization— an executive 
committee, with members from all the countries 
involved, which made the hard, unpleasant de- 
cisions about the rebuilding of Europe. It worked 
hand in hand with American experts, but the 
decisions were made— and enforced— by the 
Europeans themselves. 

What we need now is a similar Inter-American 
Economic Organization, which will work out 
over-all plans for developing the whole conti- 
nent. It must set priorities, and see that efforts 
are concentrated on major programs. It must 
decide (consulting with U.S. experts) where dol- 
lars and trained men can be used best. 

No one nation can do this for itself, and we 
alone cannot do it, either. If the United States 
were to deny an airport to, say, Honduras, be- 
cause the money can be better spent on a road 
in Brazil, every Honduran politician would 
scream his head off. Or if we insisted on land 
reform in El Salvador, under threat of with- 
holding aid, we would instantly be accused of 
"imperialist interference." (On the other hand, 
if we demand nothing, we shall be blackmailed 
into supporting every unpopular and obsolete 
government which threatens to send a trade mis- 
sion to Moscow.) 

But if these same things are demanded by a 
non-national agency, speaking for the whole 
Latin American community, in the name of a 
common development goal, Honduras and El 
Salvador can yield gracefully. (Perhaps even 
gratefully.) Only an organization of this kind 
can enlist the ablest men and women of the con- 
tinent, for service wherever they are needed. Only 
such an organization can arouse the enthusiasm, 
and the sense of unified purpose, which will 
make the Kennedy Plan workable. 

To avoid the worst mistake of the Marshall 
Plan it must also exact at the outset a commit- 
ment from every country to start giving develop- 
ment aid to others as soon as it is over the first 

hurdles. We must never again be forced to beg 
for crumbs off the groaning tables of countries 
we saved only a few years earlier. 

A common Inter-American Organization could, 
finally, establish stirring goals— for instance, to 
double, within a decade, Latin America's literacy 
rate, its food supply, and national income. And 
it could deliver. 

With double its literacy and its food supply, 
Latin America would still not be overeducated 
or overfed. After doubling incomes, the average 
per family would still be below $1,000 a year 
whereas even in Puerto Rico it is now $1,700. 
And there would be plenty of other troubles still 
ahead, particularly in the small Central American 
Republics, which will grow more painful as eco- 
nomic expectations rise. But only in this fashion 
can Latin America become capable of soaring 
higher under its own power— self-confident and 
truly independent. 

And this, after all, is the only goal U.S. policy 
can hope to attain. "To keep out Communism" 
—our negative objective in the last decade— can 
do no more than keep smoldering fires from 
becoming rampant. To bring about regimes sub- 
servient to us— which is how Latin America in- 
terpreted the Dulles policy— cannot work: Latin 
America has progressed too far for that. And 
there is no point in our playing Lady Bountiful, 
in the hope of being loved in return. 

Our true job is to build a partnership between 
the United States and the new leaders of Latin 
America, the young, educated men with energy 
and ambition who no longer take "manana" for 
an answer. They know themselves what needs 
doing. Our role is to help them create the grow- 
ing, strong, and truly independent Latin America 
they rightly believe to be within reach. 

The .I^GOO-million appropriation for Latin 
America by the U.S. Congress is a first step. So 
are the development plans now being worked out 
by every Latin American government, each of 
which is naturally trying to get as much for it- 
self as it can. The key task, however, is still to 
be tackled: the creating of a new kind of political 
leadership in this country as well as in Latin 
America. Neither the American people nor the 
Latins yet understand that this is not just an- 
other "aid" program . . . that it is a long first step 
beyond passive "containment" of the revolution- 
ary forces in the world today . . . that the purpose 
of aid is not primarily to create wealth, but to 
create justice, vision, and commitment to ac- 
tion . . . and that the Kennedy Plan is our first— 
and if it fails, perhaps our last— entry as active 
contenders into "competitive co-existence." 

Harper's Magazine, July 1V61 

New York Is Different 


Any resemblance between the politicians in 

this story and any actual persons (living or dead 

from, the neck up) is strictly intentional. 

THIS is a Democratic town, you got 
nothing to worry about," Ernie said. 
He is a sawed-off little guy with a droopy mus- 
tache who does not look at all like one of the 
smartest District Leaders in New York. He lit a 
cigarette and passed the pack to Mr. Kenneth B. 
Dinsmore— a six-foot-three hunk of crew-cut who 
was already smoking a pipe. 

Ernie is always edgy in Mayoralty years and 
a late primary is the worst. Anyone who wants 
to can file a petition, and we may not be sure 
who the candidates are until a lot of Democrats 
knock each other out on September 7. Then 
there are only two months left to mend fences 
before Election Day. Of course we will win, but 
too many Republicans are going around with big 
grins on their faces. Like Governor Nelson 
Rockefeller who still has his eye on the White 

House. The Administration in Washington 
worries about the situation in New York almost 
as much as Laos. Instead of the CIA they have 
sent us Mr. Dinsmore who likes to be called Hal. 
He went to school with Bobby Kennedy or 
maybe Teddy and is the new nonpolitical type 
of candidate who has never run for anything. 
We are supposed to put him on our ticket maybe 
for Comptroller or Council President, depending 
on who gets dumped or pulls out. No matter 
what they say now, anyone can change his mind 
about running up to August 10, which is the last 
day for declining nominations and m-aking sub- 
stitutions. Until then we will carry Mr. Dins- 
more as a spare part, if he goes for the idea 
which we will have to sell him. 

This is why Ernie Glickman and I were holed 
up in a bedroom-and-parlor suite at the Biltmore 
with Hal and his wife Carol. She is a Dallas 
girl whose Daddy is very rich even for Texas. I 
am Teresa Rovizzi. My friends call me Tess 
and I was there more or less as Ernie's cheering 

"It is a rare privilege, Hal, and a high honor," 
Ernie said, "that a man of your caliber and 
distinguished record has decided to enter the 
political arena in our great city at this time." 



"Decided is perhaps too strong a word. I am 
exploring," Hal answered, tapping his pipe on 
an ash tray in an Ivy League sort of way. He was 
in the Treasury Department under Truman and 
now works for a Wall Street law firm whose 
senior partners were in the McKinley Cabinet. 
He is the kind of candidate we would usually 
run for Congress in a solid Republican district. 
After he loses he is made an Honorary Commis- 
sioner and can ride out in the harbor on tug- 
boats to receive Royalty. He is not the type the 
Boys want hanging around City Hall. 

Ernie is not used to shopping around for can- 
didates. Generally he gets the word from the 
Hall and gives the nod to one of his boys and 
has some posters printed up and that is that. 
He has had very little practice giving sales talks 
to someone like Hal, who is not much of a Demo- 
crat and has only lived in New York lor ten 
years and is an Episcopalian. Of course White 
Protestants are all right. But there is no such 
bloc of votes in New York. So when you put one 
on your slate you still have all the headaches of 
balancing out your ticket. 

"I am somewhat staggered by the problems of 
this great urban complex," Hal said. "It is a 
palace and a jungle where only the rich and the 
destitute can survive." 

"We are for Middle Income Housing. Also 
for Neighborhood Renewal and more State Aid 
for Schools," Ernie snapped back. 

"But there is vast wealth right here," Hal 
went on. "Municipal waste and corruption are 
bleeding the city white. Stanley told me at din- 
ner last night that we could save a hundred mil- 
lion dollars a year if we kicked out all the city job 
holders who are not doing any work." 

Stanley is Stanley Isaacs. He is the only Re- 
publican on the City Council and a very peculiar 
person for a Democratic candidate to be having 
dinner with. 

"We have a very fine Code of Ethics. The 
Mayor will not stand for any Conflict of Inter- 
est," Ernie said. I forget what payroll he is on 
but he does not have any financial problems. 
"Tess, get coffee," he ordered. 

Marion K. Sanders, who ran for Congress in 
Rockland County and is the author of "The Lady 
and the Vote," has inhaled the pungent aroma of 
New York politics both as a candidate and as a 
reporter. She is an editor of this magazine and a 
frequent contributor; her articles include the con- 
troversial "Social Work: A Profession Chasing Its 
Tail" and. "A Proposition for Women." 

I called room service. Sometimes my political 
career seems like one long coffee break. When 
I was a kid in Brooklyn I toted cartons to the 
polls every Primary and Election Day. That was 
before 1933 when we got a Fusion Administra- 
tion, which is a Nonpartisan Coalition of Better 
Elements who do not want to stay in politics too 
long. For the next twelve years Mayor La 
Guardia did not need my Daddy's services to 
inspect holes made in our streets by the Con- 
solidated Edison Company. Daddy took a job 
at the A & P which left him very little time for 
his work as Precinct Captain. I dug into the old 
schoolbooks and got myself admitted to Hunter 
College. Brooklyn people are very patriotic, so 
Daddy did not like the idea of a college in Man- 
hattan. However, he no longer had any jobs to 
give out even to his own daughter, so he said 
okay, maybe it would be a broadening experi- 
ence. It was. At Hunter, many of the faculty 
had gone to Barnard or even Vassar. That is how 
I became bilingual and can speak both Park 
Avenue and Flatbush, which is very handy in 
politics. The boys use me as a kind of Simul- 
taneous Translator w^th volunteers in campaigns. 

"We gotta let them know you're in this race, 
Hal," Ernie said. "We need a good catchy 

"To project the right image," I added. 

"Something direct and hard-hitting," Hal pro- 
posed. "Clean out the Grafters— Clean up the 
City. We used that idea in Philadelphia the 
first time Clark and Dilworth ran." 

"This," said Ernie sourly, "ain't Philadelphia." 

TH E Dinsmores live in a duplex with a 
gorgeous view of the East River but his 
family are what is called Main Line. So he keeps 
forgetting that Clark and Dilworth ran against 
the Entrenched Republican Machine. We are 
the Big Bad Ins with a two-term Mayor who is 
called honest but weak by his best friends. 

Bob Wagner does not like to slap people 
down. So he gets pushed around. By Carmine 
DeSapio, the leader of Tammany Hall. By Slate 
Investigating Commissions. By beatniks ^vho 
want to folk-sing in Washington Square Park. 
By Robert Moses, who has been Commissioner 
of almost everything including housing which he 
is not very good at. Wagner believes in letting 
things blow over, only instead they seem to 
blow up. 

However we want him to run lor a third term. 
He is a New York sort of Mayor and as Joe 
Sharkey, the Leader of Brooklyn put it, "You 
can't beat something with nothing." Nothing is 



what you have if you cannot retool an incum- 
bent in this City. Other places seem to be full of 
Distinguished Democrats who could run for 
Mayor. But our New York Congressmen and 
other officeholders are mostly from safe districts 
and do not need to be famous to be elected. The 
only Democrats who get their faces in the papers 
very much are Insurgents. But 
all of them want to run for every- 
thing or nothing and cannot 
agree on candidates. Maybe they 
will fall for a NeAv Face like 
Hal's. That is what we hope will 
happen at our Campaign KickofI 
next week, a Ladies' Luncheon. 

"I have been thinking about 
the luncheon," Hal said. "I will 
pay tribute to the many ethnic 
groups that have contributed so 
much to the culture and progress 
of this great heterogeneous 

"He will work with All Ele- 
ments in our Party," I inter- 

"Good," Ernie said. "Be sure 
Mrs. O'Houlihan gets to take a 
bow." Her husband is the Leader of the Dennis 
P. O'Houlihan Club on the Upper East Side. 

"Why build up that old hack?" Hal demanded. 
"I hear their club didn't move a muscle for 
Stevenson or Kennedy." 

"Dennie could hurt us bad," Ernie said. "Lots 
of Irish in that district." 

"She is a nice old biddy," I added soothingly. 

Hal was staring out of the window at the cars 
and taxis backed up bumper to bumper on 
Madison Avenue. The sidewalk was blocked 
with the scaffolding of a new office building. 

"Traffic and real estate speculators are stran- 
gling this city," he said. "I shall make a blister- 
ing statement on the transportation mess and 
urban planning." 

"Transit is always a good issue," Ernie an- 
swered, "if you promise not to raise the subway 
fare. But you better lay off real estate. The 
contractors take whole tables at County 

"Let's go over the luncheon Dais," I suggested. 
"The seating plan is more important than the 

Carol Dinsmore perked up. A luncheon was 
something she could really come to grips with. 
I could see she was starting to worry about 
whether to wear a hat and if so should it be 
a Jackie pillbox or something more Neiman- 

Marcus. "Wear the flowered one," I told her, 
"and that divine white raw-silk sheath." 

"But it's so sooty here," she protested in 
her weird Texas drawl which I have not quite 
tuned in on yet. 

"Don't forget Nc\\' York is a Summer Festival," 
I said. Someone dreamed up this corny slogan to 
attract visitors. If you have ever 
tried to get into Schrafft's for 
hnich or even 21, you know that 
we need a slogan to keep people 
away. Sometimes I wonder, if 
New York is so terrible, why 
does everybody want to come 

"Will Mrs. Roosevelt be 
there?" Carol chirped. "I sure 
would be thrilled to meet her." 
"You will sit right next to 
her," I promised. Of course I 
was not absolutely sure because 
right now you cannot tell which 
Democrats are speaking to each 
other. At a time like this a 
Ladies' Luncheon is very help- 
ful. No matter how they feel 
about Cuba or taxes or remedial 
reading, all women like to doll up and go to the 
Park Lane. Mrs. R. is not the dressy type but she 
is very strong for Women in Politics. Also you are 
working with symbols instead of the real thing, 
so— as the psychiatrists say— tensions are lower. 
For instance Mrs. R. would not want to shake 
hands this summer with Mr. DeSapio or Mr. 
Sharkey. But she would not mind sipping a 
glass of sherry with their wives, who are very 
ladylike and never discuss politics. Ladies do 
not listen too much to the speeches at luncheons 
but they all know who is sitting on the Dais 
and tell their husbands. So I had to get the Dais 
problem settled. I slajiped my yellow pad on the 
coffee table and Carol got all ready to start writing 
place cards. Only I had not yet put down any 
names, just a check list like this: 

3 Reverends 
Party Brass 
Money Bags 
Organization— Regular 
Organization- Reform 
Organization Insurgents 
Insurgent Insurgents 
Mrs. R. 
Dolly Schiff 

"The Father was from St. Patrick's last year," 
Ernie said. "So we will have one of those Italian 


priests from your parish, Tess. And an Irish 
tenor can do the National Anthem." 

I wrote down some names while Hal looked 
over my shoulder studying my notes as if they 
were the Dead Sea Scrolls. 

"This intra-party struggle is very perplexing," 
he said. "I need to get the feel at the grass roots. 
Could I meet some of the rank and file at your 
club, Ernie?" 

"Why sure," Ernie said. "Tuesday is Club 
Night. We are very informal." 

ERNIE runs what is called an Old Line 
Club. It is mostly a place to play poker and 
pinochle. Tuesdays the leader is there to see 
people who have problems about jobs or con- 
tracts or court cases. 

"I would love to come too. May I?" Carol 
asked. "I want to be real active in politics when 
Hal is running." 

Ernie scowled. Women do not go to Old Line 
Clubs except maybe a cleaning lady with a 
large family of voting age and relaxed ideas 
about dust and cigar butts. 

"The Lexington Club is much more interest- 
ing," I suggested. "They go in for issues and 
women. Also they are always for Stevenson no 
matter who is running, so you will learn all about 
the UN." 

The Lexingtons believe in Party democracy 
and other Reform ideas. In 1954 their leaders 
won a primary so now they have a vote in 
Tammany Hall which makes them an Organiza- 
tion Reform Club. Carmine DeSapio was very 
friendly with the Lexingtons until our State 
Convention in 1958. Governor Harriman wanted 
Tom Finletter to run for U.S. Senate. But De- 
Sapio picked District Attorney Frank Hogan. 
He lost to the Republican candidate. Senator 
Keating. Rockefeller swamped Harriman. In most 
other states Democrats won big. Finletter belongs 
to the Lexington Club. So do Mrs. Roosevelt 
and Senator Lehman. They said we lost because 
of the Image of Bossism and DeSapio must go. 

"I have many friends in the Lexington Club," 
Hal said. "They have asked me for a donation to 
the Committee for Democratic Voters. I would 
like to get your slant on that." 

I hoped that Ernie would count ten before 
answering. Senator Lehman and Mrs. R. and 
Finletter started this committee which the papers 
call the CDV. They are going to clean up the 
Democratic party by getting rid of the Image 
of Bossism. They have raised a lot of money 
from people who think DeSapio looks like a 
fugitive from the Untouchables. 

"These self-styled liberals are wrecking our 
party," Ernie answered. The way he says "self- 
styled" it sounds like perjury. 

"DeSapio has to wear dark glasses because 
he has eye trouble. Is this a crime? What other 
Tammany Leader ever gave lectures at New 
York University? And do not forget—" he shook 
a finger at Carol and me— "he changed the 
name of Co-Leaders to Leaders Female." 

Some of the girls got a big charge out of 
this. But to me it sounds like a sign in a zoo. 
I would be more thrilled if the Leaders-Male 
would start ordering their own coffee. 

"As I understand it," Hal said, "the battle 
against DeSapio has become a rallying point 
for Reform. It has brought a surge of new blood 
into the Party Organization." 

THIS is what happened in 1959, in Man- 
hattan. Insurgents popped up in all the 
thirty-three districts and ran for leader against 
The Image of Bossism. But the Boss— DeSapio— 
also put up his own Insurgents to run against 
some Regulars— like the Lexingtons— who were 
no longer friendly with him. The CDV prom- 
ised to help whoever was against the Image of 
Bossism. But all this New Blood gave the CDV 
a very hard time. For instance, there might be 
three Insurgents running against each other in 
the 10th A.D. South. Who should get the CDV 
endorsement and— more important— money? The 
CDV had never heard of most of these people 
and was not quite sure where the 10th A.D, 
South was. When you are handing out cash and 
endorsements you need a Boss. The CDV is 
against bosses but they have Senator Lehman 
who has been elected to high office. However, 
he is quite old and keeps going to Palm Springs. 
DeSapio is not old and stays in the Biltmore 
most of the time. 

"Why is it," Hal asked, "that the Reform 
Groups have not yet agreed on a candidate of 
their own for Mayor?" 

"They have very democratic procedures about 
candidates which may take all summer," I ex- 
jjlained. "Some of them like Wagner and some 
don't but hardly any of them like each other." 

The Insurgents who lost in the '59 primary 
are now mad at the CDV as well as DeSajiio. So 
they are Insurgent Insurgents. Some of them 
might even flip for Fusion which only a very 
mixed-up Democrat would do in this town. 

"1 understand," Hal said, "that there is still 
a good possibility of a Fusion Movement. I 
hear that the Liberal Republicans and the Lib- 
eral Party are sounding out an Independent 



Democrat to run for Mayor." He reads the 
Herald-Tribune at breakfast, a fiabit we must 
break him of. 

"Let them yack," Ernie said. "Fusion is just 
another name for Republican. The people of 
this city know the Republicans will not do 
anything for them in the long run." 

"But Nelson Rockefeller got a lot of votes 
in Harlem, didn't he?" Hal protested. 

"Harlem is different," Ernie explained. "There 
is Congressman Adam Clayton Powell. Harlem 
has not settled down since 1957." 

That was when DeSapio tried to purge Powell 
who was having income-tax trouble and went 
for Eisenhower in '56 after Stevenson talked 
moderation, which is a dirty word in Harlem. 
Powell is a famous ladies' man and minister 
of the Abyssinian Baptist Church. He clobbered 
DeSapio's man Earl Brown who is a nice fellow 
but not very sexy or holy. Harlem closed ranks 
behind Powell and he is the one who now calls 
the shots there. 

"I have been very impressed with Congress- 
man Powell's record in the House this session," 
Hal said. "He is an eloquent spokesman for 
Civil Rights." 

"Who is against Civil Rights in New York?" 
Ernie asked. "But we are also for Partv Dis- 
cipline which Mr. Powell is not." 

Powell is always cooking up a Harlem Issue. 
He did it last year when Borough President 
Hulan Jack, who is a Negro, was booted out 
after he had a decorating job in his apartment 
paid for by a public housing contractor who had 
not done any noticeable public housing. The 
Borough President's Office is very important be- 
cause it has many exempt jobs for people who 
do not do well on Civil Service examinations 
but are good at getting out the vote. Mayor 
Wagner and DeSapio both wanted to pick Mr. 
Jack's successor and they have not been at all 
chummy since then except at nonpartisan occa- 
sions like parades. Powell started yelling discrim- 
ination. This was silly because everyone said 
the new Borough President must be a Negro, 
only DeSapio and Wagner wanted to decide 
which one. Powell also said Jack did not have 
a fair trial, which was not so, although it is 
true that the whole decorating job only cost 
$5,000, which is a very low price for a Borough 

"We must give Harlem the full treatment 
this year," Ernie said. 

"I am planning an earthy emotional appeal to 
the Negroes and Puerto Ricans," Hal said. "I 
could do part of my speech in Spanish." 

"That will not be necessary," I told him. "Mrs. 
Martinez who will be on the Dais is a co-leader 
and has learned to say yes in English. Most 
Puerto Rican ladies do not go to the Park 
Lane for lunch very much." 

"I will not pull any punches about the plight 
of our Negro and Puerto Rican citizens," Hal 
continued. "I know about the families living in 
filthy rat-infested, one-room apartments without 
heat or decent plumbing. The miserable seg- 
regated schools. The pre-delinquent adolescents 
doomed to illiteracy because they cannot speak 

"The main thing is to get the Harlem Leader- 
ship Team lined up," Ernie said. The Leader- 
ship Team is Powell and Ray Jones, who is 
called The Fox. They are fighting DeSapio too 
but not about Reform. About jobs. They are 
Organization Insurgents. "We must take care 
of them right this year," Ernie went on. "Maybe 
a Commissioner and a couple Judges. Who you 
got on the Dais for Harlem, Tess?" 

"I met this charming Negro lady at Mari- 
etta's," Carol volunteered. "She's Urban League 
or YWCA. A Mrs. Hollingshead. Would she do? 

"Sarah Hollingshead," said Ernie, whose mem- 
ory is perfect. "Fine woman. Had a job with 
O'Dwyer. But won't do for the Dais." 

"Why not?" Carol asked. 

"Too light," Ernie said, "for pictures. To show 
up right for Harlem you must be real black." 

HA L was pacing around the room in a 
very jumpy way. "The many dissident 
factions in our Party disturb me," he said. "I 
am aware that a candidate for high office must 
be a catalyst. He must weld together the warring 
factions in a common purpose." 

This was a good line even if it was straight 
out of V. O. Key's Politics, Parties, and Pressure 
Groups or The Federalist Papers, I forget which. 
I flashed him the comradely smile of a fellow 
pol. sci. major. 

"Whaddya mean factions?" Ernie snarled. 

Hal was not listening, which is a bad sign. Can- 
didates are very hard to handle when they get 
carried away by their own eloquence. 

"The great challenge as I see it," he went on, 
"is to identify the Democratic Party of New York 
City with the dynamic forward thrust of the 
National Administration." 

"He means we should hook into the New 
Frontier," I translated freely. 

"For the birds," Ernie said. "Do not start new 
frontiering around here. You have to be a 
Mormon or a Connecticut hillbilly to get a job 



i)ui t)l Washington iliese days. Tess, wherc's the 

"They charge 25 cents a cup for it here," 
Carol said. "I could run out to the drug store 
for a couple of cartons." 1 have noticed that 
millionaires are very careful about money, which 
is possibly how they got that way in the first 
place. Fortunatelv a surlv-looking Avaitcr arrived 
and began pushing furniture around to make 
room for a king-size table full of coffee urns. 
Hal took two lumps and went right back to his 
Washington. D.C. pitch. 

"I understand the patronage difficulty will 
soon be ironed out between the State and Na- 
ti(Hial Committees." he said. 

"My club is still waiting, ' Ernie said. ".And 
we do not intend to settle for an .\ssistant Fed- 
eral .\ttorney and other leftover jimk." He 
picked up my pad. "Now how about Dollv 

"I will be mighty proud to meet the lady who 
jjublishes the only Democratic paper in this 
lity," Carol chimed in. 

"The Post is not exactly what you ^\•oldd call 
Democratic in Texas," Ernie said. 

He has not forgotten that Afrs. Schiff switched 
from Harriman to Rockefeller two days before 
election in 1958. You really cannot tell how 
the Post ^\'ill go except that they are always 
for Israel. I wished that Hal looked more like 

"Dolly will be on the Dais," I said, "uidess 
she is in one of her ^Vorking Press moods. ^Ve 
always save two places for her." 

Of course she may not come to 
the Lmicheon at all. I woidd not be 
surprised if she was playing footsie 
with Fusion. 

"^Vith everybody so mixed up 
and mad at each other," Carol 
piped up, ■■ho^\• can the Democrats 
win this election? I would think 
this \\'as a \erv good vear for 

It is wrong to figine that a 
woman is necessarily a birdbrain 
because she is a natural blonde and 
talks like Gone -witJi the Wind. 

"But they got no candidate," 
Ernie barked. "Only Republicans. To have any 
chance they woidd need an Independent Demo- 
crat. .\nd I can tell you a Democrat who is that 
Independent woidd be dead in this town." 

"\Vcll now it just might be." Carol drawled, 
"that they cc^iild find the right one." She gave 
Hal a fourteen-caral adoring wife look and 

rattled on. "I believe I coiUd give you the name 
of an Independent Democrat who would make 
a really heavenly Fusion Candidate for Mayor." 
Her chatter made me very nervous but Ernie 
did not aret the message. He \\as lookiin> at his 
Avatch. It was nearly one o'clock ami all organi- 
zation politicians are very regular in their eating 

"Come on, Hal, ^\•e are meeting some of the 
Boys downstairs for lunch." he annoimced. "Tess 
you go to the coffee shop with Carol and be 
back here at three." 

"If you would excuse me," Hal said. "I have 
promised to take Carol to lunch. We are going 
to the Colony and I hope Tess will join us 
because I need some more of the real low-down 
on New York." 

Of coinse he did not have to ask me twice 
though it was too bad I had not had my hair 
done. The Colony is so expensive it makes Bilt- 
more prices look like the Automat. I am glad 
Hal is less thrifty than his wife because a Politi- 
cal l^nknown has to pick up a lot of tabs. 

"We had a marvelous lujich but Hal did not eat 
much. He was realh^woinid up and I must admit 
sounded pretty good. He thinks New York is not 
verv different from San Francisco or Cleveland or 
even New Haven, where he lived while he was col- 
lecting degrees from different colleges before go- 
ing to hnv school. He says that there can be open 
bids for city coiuracts Avithout deals and that you 
can build apartments near offices. He thinks you 
can get rid of shuns without shoving the people 
who live there into worse slums. 
He savs a lot of plavgrounds would 
be cheaper than a ne\\' ball park 
and then children would have a 
jjlace to play without moving to 
\\'estchester. He also thinks that 
if you get rid of graft and inef- 
ficiency in City Hall there will be 
plenty of money for new schools 
and hos}iitals and if there are no 
payoffs business will be so good the 
city will collect more taxes. 

Ernie says I Avas carried away 
because I am not used to having 
two Gibsons and Sparkling Rin^- 
gimdy for linich. But I still think 
Hal woidd make a great candidate even for 
Mayor. Only he does not miderstand why 
Fusion is a bad idea. In fact he seems to like it. 
This is very upsetting because campaigning for 
him would certainly be a change of jjace for 
me. But a Brooklyn girl has to dra^v the line 

Hnrftcr's MogtizinCj July 1961 

MARY McCarthy 




in the American Theatre 

How good are our "leading playwrights" ? 

One of America's sharpest critical minds probes 

the limitations of their "gloomy doctrine." 

WH O are the American realist play- 
wrights? Is there, as is assumed abroad, 
a school of realists in the American theatre or is 
this notion a critical figment? 

The question is legitimate; but lor purposes 
of discussion, I am going to take for granted 
that there is such a group, if not a school, and 
name its members: Arthur Miller, Tennessee 
Williams, William Inge, Paddy Chayefsky, the 
Elmer Rice of Street Scene. Behind them, casting 
them in the shadow, stands the great figure of 
O'Neill, and opposite them, making them seem 
more homogeneous, are writers like George 
Kelly, Wilder, Odets, Saroyan. Their counter- 
parts in the novel are Dreiser, Sherwood Ander- 
son, James T. Farrell, the early Thomas Wolfe 
—which illustrates, by the way, the backwardness 
of the theatre in comparison with the novel. The 
theatre seems to be chronically twenty years 
behind, regardless of realism, as the relation of 
Beckett to Joyce, for example, shows. 

The theatre feeds on the novel; never vice 
versa: think of the hundreds of dramatizations 
of novels, and then try to think of a book that 
was "novelized" from a play. There is not even 
a word for it. The only actual case I can call 
to mind is The Other House by Henry James— 
a minor novel he salvaged from a play of his 
own that failed. To return to the main subject, 
one characteristic of American realism in the 
theatre is that none of its practitioners currently 
wants to call himself a realist. Tennessee Wil- 
liams is known to his admirers as a "poetic 
realist," while Arthur Miller declares that he 

is an exponent of the "social play" and identifies 
himself with the Greek playwrights, whom he 
describes as social playwrights also. This de- 
lusion was dramatized, if that is the word, in 
A View from the Bridge. 

The fact that not one of these playwrights 
cares to be regarded as a realist without some 
qualifying or mitigating adjective attached to 
the term invites a definition of realism. What 
does it mean in common parlance? I have looked 
the word "realist" up in the Oxford English Dic- 
tionary. Here is what they say: ". . . In reference 
to art and literature sometimes used as a term 
of commendation, when precision and vividness 
of detail are regarded as a merit, and sometimes 
unfavorably contrasted with idealized descrip- 
tion or representation. In recent use it has often 
been used with the implication that the details 
are of an unpleasant or sordid character." This 
strikes me as a very fair account of the historical 
fate of the notion of realism, but I shall try to 
particularize a little, in the hope of finding out 
why and how this happened. And I shall not 
be condemning realism but only noting what 
people seem to think it is. 

When we say that a novel or a play is real- 
istic, we mean, certainly, that it gives a picture 
of ordinary life. Its characters will be drawn 
from the middle class, the lower middle class, 
occasionally the working class. You cannot write 
realistic drama about upper-class life; at least, 
no one ever has. Aristocracy does not lend itself 
to realistic treatment, but to one or another 
kind of stylization: romantic drama, romantic 
comedy, comedy of manners, satire, tragedy. This 
fact in itself is a realistic criticism of the aris- 
tocratic idea, which cannot afford, apparently, 
to live in the glass house of the realistic stage. 
Kings and noble men, said Aristotle, are the pro- 
tagonists of tragedy— not women or slaves. The 



same is true of nobility of character or intellect. 
The exceptional man, whether he be Oedipus 
or King Lear or one of the romantic revolution- 
ary heroes of Hugo or Musset, is fitted to be 
the protagonist of a tragedy, but just this tragic 
fitness disqualifies him from taking a leading 
role in a realist drama. Such figures as Othello 
or Hernani can never be the subject of realistic 
treatment, unless it is with the object of deflating 
them, showing how ordinary— petty or squalid— 
they are. But then the hero is no longer Othello 
but an impostor posing as Othello. Cut down 
to size, he is just like everybody else but worse, 
because he is a fraud into the bargain. 

This abrupt foreshortening is why realistic 
treatment of upper-class life always takes the 
harsh plunge into satire. No man is a hero to 
his valet, and Beaumarchais' Figaro is the spokes- 
man of social satire— not of realism; his per- 
sonal and private realism turns his master into 
a clown. Realism deals with ordinary men and 
women or, in extreme forms, with sub-ordinary 
men, men on the level of beasts or of blind con- 
ditioned reflexes (for example, Tlic Hairy Ape). 
This tendency is usually identified with natural- 
ism, but I am regarding naturalism as simply 
a variety of realism. 

Realism, historically, is associated with two 
relatively modern inventions, i.e., with journal- 
ism and with photography. "Photographic real- 
ism" is a pejorative term, and enemies of realis- 
tic literature often dismissed it as "no more 
than journalism," implying that journalism was 
a sordid, seamy affair— a daily photographic close- 
up, as it were, of the clogged pores of society. 
The author as sheer observer likened himself 
to a camera (Dos Passos, Christopher Isherwood, 
Wright Morris), and insofar as the realistic novel 
was vowed to be a reflector of ordinary life, 
the newspapers inevitably became a prime source 
of material. In America, in the early part of 
this century, the realistic novel was a partner of 

Mary McCarthy's fiction and criticism have 
kept her in the intellectual vanguard in this country 
since her first novel, "The Company She Keeps" ivas 
published in 1942. She has written ivith vigor and 
distinction on subjects as diverse as "Memories of a 
Catholic Girlhood" (in Seattle), "The Groves of 
Academe" fin the Eastern U.S.A.), and "The Stones 
of Florence." Her theatrical criticism was collected 
in "Sights and Spectacles." Her new book of essays 
(including this one) will be called "On the Con- 
trary" and will be published by Farrar, Straus and 
Cudahy in September. Married to James West, the 
U.S. cultural attache, she now lives in Warsaw, 

what was callcil "nuick-raking" journalism, anc 
both were linkctl with populism and crusade;' 
for political reform. 

Hence, perhaps, in part, the imsavory associ 
ations in common speech of the word "realistic," 
even when applied in nonliterary contexts. 
Take the phrase "a realistic decision." If some-| 
one tells you he is going to make "a realistic 
decision," )ou immediately understand that he | 
has resolved to do something bad. The same 
with "Realpolidk." A "realistic politics" is a 
euphemism for a politics of harsh opportunism; 
if you hear someone say that it is time for a 
government to follow a realistic line, you can 
interpret this as meaning that it is time for 
principles to be abandoned. 

WHiatever the field, whenever you hear that a 
subject is to be treated "realistically," you ex- 
pect that its unpleasant aspects are to be brought 
forward. So it is with the play and the novel. 
A delicate play like Turgenev's A Month in the 
Coinitry, though perfectly truthful to life, seems 
deficient in realism in comparison with the 
stronger medicine of Gorki's The Lower Depths. 
This is true of Turgenev's novels as well and 
of such English writers as Mrs. Gaskell. And 
of the jDeaceful parts of War and Peace. Ordi- 
nary life treated in its uneventful aspects tends 
to turn into an idyl. We think of Turgenev and 
Mrs. Gaskell almost as pastoral writers, despite 
the fact that their faithful sketches have nothing 
in common with the artificial convention of the 
trtie pastoral. We suspect that there is some- 
thing Arcadian here— something "unrealistic." 


IF realism deals Avith the ordinary man em- 
bedded in ordinary life, which for the most 
part is uneventftd, what then is the criterion 
that makes us forget Tiugenev or Mrs. Gaskell 
Avhen we name off the realists? I think it is this: 
what we call realism, and particularly dramatic 
realism, tends to single out the ordinary man at 
the moment he might get into ihe newspaper. 
The criterion, in other words, is draAvn from 
journalism. The ordinary man must become 
"news" before he qualifies to be the protagonist 
of a realistic play or novel. The exceptional man 
is news at all times, but how can the ordinary 
man get into the paper? By committing a crime. 
Or, more rarely, by getting inxolved in a spec- 
tacular accident. Since accidents, in general, 
are barred from the drama, this leaves crime- 
murder oi suicide ox embe/zlement. And we 
find that the protagonists of realistic drama. 

BY MARY McCarthy 


by and large, are the protagonists of newspaper 
stories— "little men" who have shot their wives 
or killed themselves in the garage or gone to 
jail for fraud or embezzlement. 

Now drama has always had an affinity for 
crime— long before realism was known, Oedipus 
and Clytemnestra and Macbeth and Othello were 
famous for their deeds of blood. But the crimes 
of tragedy are the crimes of heroes, while the 
crimes of realistic drama are the crimes of the 
nondescript person, the crimes that are, in a 
sense, all alike. The individual in the realistic 
drama is regarded as a cog or a statistic; he 
commits the uniform crime that sociologically 
he might be expected to commit. That is, sup- 
posing that 1,031 bookkeepers in New York 
State are destined annually to falsify the firm's ac- 
counts, 207 policemen to shoot their wives, and 
1,115 householders to do away with themselves 
in the garage, each individual bookkeeper, cop, 
and householder has been holding a ticket in 
this statistical lottery— like the fourteen Athenian 
youths and maidens sent off yearly to the Mino- 
taur's labyrinth— and he acquires interest for the 
realist theatre only when his "number" comes up. 

To put it simply, Frank, the stagehand in 
Street Scene, commits his crime— wife murder- 
without having the moral freedom to choose as 
an individual to commit it, just as Willy Loman 
in Death of a Salesman commits suicide— under 
sociological pressure. The hero of tragedy, on 
the contrary, is a morally free being who iden- 
tifies himself with his crime, and this is true 
even where he is fated, like Oedipus, to commit 
it and can be said to have no personal choice 
in the matter. Oedipus both rejects and accepts 
his deeds, embraces them in free will at last as 
liis. It is the same with Othello or Hamlet. 

The distinction will be clear if you ask your- 
self what tragedy of Shakespeare is closest to the 
realistic theatre. The answer, surely, is Macbeth. 
And why? Because of Lady Macbeth. Macbeth 
really doesn't choose to murder the sleeping 
Duncan; Lady Macbeth chooses for him; he is 
like a middle-class husband, nagged on by his 
ambitious wife, the way the second vice presi- 
dent of a bank is nagged on by his Mrs. Macbeth, 
who wants him to become first vice president. 
The end of the tragedy, however, reverses all 
this; Macbeth becomes a hero only late in the 
drama, when he pushes Lady Macbeth aside 
and takes all his deeds on himself. Paradoxically, 
the conspicuous tragic hero is never free not 
to do his deed; he cannot escape it, as Hamlet 
found. But the mute hero or protagonist of a 
realistic play is always free, at least seemingly, 

not to emerge from obscurity and get his picture 
in the paper. There is always the chance that 
not he but some other nondescript bookkeeper 
or policeman will answer the statistical call. 

The heroes of realistic plays are clerks, book- 
keepers, policemen, housewives, salesmen, school- 
teachers, small and middling business men. They 
commit crimes but they cannot be professional 
criminals (unlike the heroes of Genet or the char- 
acters in The Beggar's Opera), for professional 
criminals, like kings and noble men, are a race 


TH E settings of realistic plays are offices, 
drab dining-rooms or living-rooms, or the 
back yard, which might be defined as a place 
where some grass has once been planted and 
failed to grow. The back yard is a favorite locus 
for American realist plays, but no realist play 
takes place in a garden. 

Nature is excluded from the realist play, as 
it has been from the realistic novel. The presence 
of nature in Turgenev (and in Chekhov) denotes, 
as I have suggested, a pastoral intrusion. If a 
realist play does not take place in the back yard, 
where nature has been eroded by clothes poles, 
garbage cans, bottled-gas tanks, and so on, it 
takes place indoors, where the only plant, gen- 
erally, is a rubber plant. Even with Ibsen, the 
action is confined to a room or pair of rooms 
until the late plays like The Lady from the Sea, 
The Master Builder, John Gabriel Borkman, 
when the realistic style has been abandoned for 
symbolism and the doors are swung open to the 
garden, mountains, the sea. Ibsen, however, is an 
exception to the general rule that the indoor 
scene must be unattractive; his middle-class 
Scandinavians own some handsome furniture; 
Nora's house, like any doll's house, must have 
been charmingly appointed. 

But Ibsen is an exception to another rule 
that seems to govern realistic drama (and the 
novel too, for that matter)— the rule that it must 
not be well written. (Thanks to William Archer's 
wooden translations, his work now falls into 
line in English.) This rule in America has the 
force, almost, of a law, one of those iron laws 
that work from within necessity itself, appar- 
ently, and without conscious human aid. Our 
American realists do not try to write badly. 
Many, like Arthur Miller, strive to write "well," 
but like Dreiser in the novels, they are cursed 
with inarticulateness. They "grope." They are, 
as O'Neill said of himself, "fogbound." 



1 he heroes are petty or colorless; the settings 
are drab; the language is lame. Thus the ugli- 
ness of the torm is complete. I am not say- 
ing this as a criticism, only observing that when 
a play or a novel fails to meet these norms, we 
cease to think of it as realistic. Flaubert, known 
to be a "stylist," ceases to count for us as a realist, 
and even in the last century, Matthew Arnold, 
hailing Tolstoy as a realist, was blinded by cat- 
egorical thinking— with perhaps a little help from 
the translations— into calling his novels raw "slices 
of life," sprawling, formless, and so on. But it is 
these cliches, in the long run, that have won out. 
The realistic novel today is more like what 
Arnold thought Tolstoy was than it is like 
Tolstoy or any of the early realists. 

This question of the beauty of form also 
touches the actor. An actor formerly was sup- 
posed to be a good-looking man, with a hand- 
some figure, beautiful movements, and a noble 
diction. These attributes are no longer necessary 
for a stage career; indeed, in America they are 
a pcjsitive handicap. A good-looking young man 
who moves well and speaks well is becoming 
almost unemployable in American "legit" the- 
atre; his best hope today is to look for work in 
musical comedy. Or posing for advertisements. 
On the English stage, where realism until re- 
cently never got a foothold, the good-looking 
actor still rules the roost, but the English actor 
cannot j:)lay American realist parts, while the 
American actor cannot play Shakespeare or Shaw. 
A pretty girl in America may still hope to be an 
actress, though even here there are signs of a 
change: the heroine of O'Neill's late play, A 
Moon for the Misbegotten, was a freckled giant- 
ess five feet eleven inches tall and weighing 
180 pounds. 

Eisenstein and the Italian neo-realists used peo- 
ple off the street for actors— a logical inference 
from premises which, being egalitarian and 
documentary, are essentially hostile to profes- 
sional elites, including Cossacks, Swiss Guards, 
and actors. The professional actor in his grease 
paint is the antithesis of the pallid man on the 
street. But film and stage realism are not so 
democratic in their principles as may at first 
appear. To begin with, the director and a small 
corps of professionals— electricians and camera- 
men—assume absolute power over the masses, 
i.e., over the untrained actors picked from the 
crowd; no resistance is encountered, as it would 
be with professional actors, in molding the hu- 
man material to the director-dictator's will. And 
even with stars and all-professional casts, the 
same tendency is found in the modon realist 

or neo-rcalist directt^r. Hence the whispered 
stories of stars deliberately broken by a direc- 
tor: James Dean and Brigitte Bardot. Similar 
stories of brain-washing are heard backstage. 
This is not surprising if realism, as we now know 
it, rejects as nonaverage whatever is noble, beau- 
tiful, or seemly, whatever is capable of "ges- 
ture," whatever in fact is free. 


EVERYTHING I have been saying up 
till now can be summed up in a sentence. 
Realism is a depreciation of the real. It is a 
gloomy puritan doctrine that has flourished 
chiefly in puritan countries— America, Ireland, 
Scandinavia, northern France, nonconformist 
England— chilly, chilblained countries, where the 
daily world is ugly and everything is done to 
keep it so, as if as a punishment for sin. The 
doctrine is spreading with industrialization, 
the growth of ugly cities, and the erosion of 
nature. It came late to the English stage, long 
after it had appeared in the novel, because those 
puritan elements witb which it is naturally allied 
have, up until now, considered the theatre to 
be wicked. 

At the same time, in defense of realism, it 
must be said that its great enemy has been just 
that puritan life whose gray color it has taken. 
The original realists— Ibsen in the theatre, Flau- 
bert in the novel— regarded themselves as 
"pagans," in opposition to their puritan con- 
temporaries, and adhered to a religion of beauty 
or Nature; they dreamed of freedom and hedon- 
istic license (Flaubert), and exalted the auton- 
omy of the individual will (Ibsen). Much of 
this "paganism" is still found in O'Casey and 
in the early O'Neill, a curdled puritan of Irish- 
American stock. 

The original realists were half Dionysian 
aesthetes ("the vine-leaves in his hair"), and 
their heroes and heroines were usually rebels, 
protesting the drabness and meanness of the 
common life. Ibsen's characters complain that 
they are "stifling"; in the airless hypocrisy of 
the puritan middle-class parlor, people were 
being j)oisoned by the dead gas of lies. Hypocrisy 
is the cardinal sin of the middle class, and the 
exposure of a lie is at the center of all Ibsen's 
plots. The strength and passion of realism is its 
resolve to tell the whole truth; this explains 
why the realist in his indictment of society 
avoids the old method of satire with its deligliied 

The realist drama at its Iiighest is an im- 

BY MARY McCarthy 


placable expose. Ibsen rips oft the curtain and 
shows his audiences to themselves, and there is 
something inescapable in the manner of the con- 
frontation, like a case slowly being built. The 
pillars of society who sit in the best seats are, bit 
by bit, informed that they are rotten and that 
the commerce they live on is a commerce of 
"coffin ships." The action of the Ibsen stage 
is too close for comfort to the lives of the audi- 
ence; only the invisible "fourth wall" divides 
them. "This is the way we live now!" Moral 
examination, self-examination are practiced as 
a duty, a Protestant stock-taking, in the realist 
mission hall. 


FO R this, it is essential that the audience 
accept the picture as true; it cannot be per- 
mitted to feel that it is watching something 
"made up" or embellished. Hence the stripping 
down of the form and the elimination of effects 
that might be recognized as literary. For the 
first time, too, in the realist drama, the acces- 
sories of the action are described at length by 
the playwright. The details must strike home and 
convince. The audience must be able to place 
the furniture, the carpets, the ornaments, the 
napery and glassware as "just what these people 
would have." 

This accounts for the importance of the stage 
set. Many critics who scornfully dismiss the 
'boxlike set" of the realistic drama, with its care- 
ful disposition of furniture, do not understand 
its function. This box is the box or "coffin" of 
average middle-class life opened at one end to 
reveal the corpse within, looking, as all em- 
balmed corpses are said to do, "just as if it were 
alive." Inside the realist drama, whenever it is 
genuine and serious, there is a kind of double 
illusion, a false bottom: everything appears to be 
lifelike but this appearance of life is death. The 
stage set remains a central element in all true 
realism; it cannot be replaced by scrim or plat- 

In A Long Day's Journey into Night, surely 
the greatest realist drama since Ibsen, the 
family living-room, with its central overhead 
lighting fixture is as solid and eternal as oak 
and as sad as wicker, and O'Neill in the text 
tells the stage designer what books must be in the 
glassed-in bookcase on the left and what books 
in the other by the entrance. 

The tenement of Rice's Street Scene (in the 
opera version) was a magnificent piece of char- 

acterization; so was the Bronx living-room of 
Odets' Aioake and Sing—hh sole (and successful) 
experiment with realism. I can still see the bowl 
of fruit on the table, slightly to the left of stage 
center, and hear the Jewish mother interrupting 
whoever happened to be talking, to say, "Have 
a piece of fruit." That bowl of fruit, which ivas 
the Jewish Bronx, remains more memorable as 
a character than many of the people in the 
drama. This gift of characterization through 
props and stage set is shared by Paddy Chayefsky 
in Middle of the Night and by William Inge in 
Come Back, Little Sheba, where an unseen prop 
or accessory, the housewife's terrible frowsty 
little dog, is the master stroke of realist illusion- 
ism and, more than that, a kind of ghostly totem. 
All these plays, incidentally, are stories of death- 

This urgent correspondence with a familiar 
reality, down to the last circumstantial detail, 
is what makes realism so gripping, like a trial 
in court. The dramatist is witnessing or testify- 
ing, on an oath never sworn before in a work 
of art, not to leave out anything and to tell the 
truth to the best of his ability. And yet the 
realistic dramatist, beginning with Ibsen, is 
aware of a missing element. The realist mode 
seems to generate a dissatisfaction with itself, 
even in the greatest masters: Tolstoy, for ex- 
ample, came to feel that his novels, up to Resur- 
rection, were inconsequential, trifling; the vital 
truth had been left out. In short, as a novelist, 
he began to feel like a hypocrite. This dissatisfac- 
tion with realism was evidently suffered also by 
Ibsen; halfway through his realist period, you see 
him start to look for another dimension. Hardly 
had he discovered or invented the new dramatic 
mode than he showed signs of being cramped 
by it; he experienced, if his plays are an index, 
that same sense of confinement, of being stifled, 
within the walls of realism that his characters 
experience within the walls of middle-class life. 
Something was missing: air. 

This is already plain in The Wild Duck, a 
strange piece of autocriticism and probably his 
finest play; chafing, restless, mordant, he is search- 
ing for something else, for a poetic element, 
which he represents, finally, in the wild duck 
itself, a dramatic symbol for that cherished wild 
freedom that neither Ibsen nor his characters 
can maintain, without harming it, in a shut-in 
space. But to resort to symbols to make good 
the missing element becomes a kind of forcing, 
like trying to raise a wild bird in an attic, and 
the strain of this is felt in Rosmersholm, where 
symbols play a larger part and are charged with 



a more oppressive weight of meaning. In TJie 
Lady from the Sea, The Master Builder, and 
other late plays, the symbols have broken through 
the thin fence or framework of realism; poetry 
has spread its crippled wings, but the price has 
been heavy. 

The whole history of dramatic realism is en- 
capsulated in Ibsen: first, the renunciation of 
verse and of historical and philosophical subjects 
in the interests of prose and the present time; 
then the dissatisfaction and the attempt to re- 
store the lost element through a recourse to 
symbols; then, or at the same time, a forcing of 
the action of the climaxes to heighten the drama; 
finally, the renunciation of realism in favor of a 
mixed mode or hodgepodge. The reaching for 
tragedy at the climaxes is evident in Hedda 
Gabler and still more so in Rosmersholm , where, 
to me at any rate, that climactic shriek, "To the 
mill race!" is absurdly like a bad film. 

Many of Ibsen's big moments, even as early 
as A Doll's House, strike me as false and gran- 
diose, that is, precisely, as stagy. Nor is it only in 
the context of realism that they apjjear so. It is 
not just that one objects that people do not 
act or talk like that— which is Tolstoy's criticism 
of King Lear on the heath. If you compare the 
mill-race scene in Rosmersholm with the climax 
of a Shakespearean tragedy, you will see that the 
Shakespearean heroes are far less histrionic, more 
natural and ordinary; there is always a stillness 
at the center of the Shakespearean storm. It is 
as if the realist, in reaching for tragedy, were 
punished for his hubris by a ludicrous fall into 
bathos. Tragedy is impossible by definition in 
the quotidian realist mode, since (quite aside 
from the question of the hero) tragedy is the ex- 
ceptional action one of whose signs is beauty. 

o'neill's long quest 

IN America the desire to supply the missing 
element (usually identified as poetry or 
"beauty") seems to grow stronger and stronger 
exactly in proportion to the author's awkward- 
ness with language. The less a playwright can 
write prose, the more he wishes to write poetry 
and to raise his plays by their bootstraps to a 
higher realm. You find these applications of 
"beauty" in Arthur Miller and Tennessee Wil- 
liams; they stand out like rouge on a pitted 
complexion; it is as though the author first 
wrote the play naturalistically and then gave it a 
beauty treatment or face lift. 

Before them, O'Neill, who was too honest and 
too philosophically inclined to be satisfied by a 

surface solution, kept looking methodically for 
a way of representing the missing element in 
dramas that would still be realistic at the core. 
He experimented with masks {Tlie Great God 
Brown), with the aside and the soliloquy (Strange 
Interlude), with a story and pattern borrowed 
from the Greek classic drama (Mourning Be- 
comes Electro). 

In other words, he imported into the American 
home or farm the machinery of tragedy. But his 
purpose was always a greater realism. His use 
of the aside, for example, was very different 
from the traditional use of the aside (a kind 
of nudge to the audience, usually on the part 
of the villain, to let them in on his true intent 
or motive); in Strange Interlude O'Neill was 
trying, through the aside, to make available to 
the realistic drama the discoveries of modern 
psychology, to represent on the stage the un- 
conscious selves of his characters, at cross purposes 
with their conscious selves but just as real if 
not realer, at least according to the psychoan- 

He was trying, in short, to give a more com- 
j)lete picture of ordinary people in their daily 
lives. It was the same with his use of masks in 
TJie Great God Broxvn; he was appropriating 
the mask of Athenian drama, a ritual means of 
putting a distance between the human actor 
and the audience, to bring his own audience 
closer to the inner humanity of his character— 
the man behind the mask of conformity. The fact 
that these devices were clumsy is beside the 
point. O'Neill's sincerity usually involved him 
in clumsiness. In the end, he came back to the 
straight realism of his beginnings: The Long 
Voyage Home, the title of his young Caribbean 
series, could also be the title of the great play 
of his old age: A Long Day's Journey into Night. 
He has sailed beyond the horizon and back into 
port; the circle is complete. In this late play, 
the quest for the missing element, as such, is 
renounced; poetry is held to be finally unattain- 
able by the author. 

"I couldn't touch what I tried to tell you just 
now," says the character who is supposed to be 
the young O'Neill. "I just stammered. That's the 
best I'll ever do. I mean, if I live. Well, it will 
be faithful realism, at least. Stammering is the 
native eloquence of us fog people." 

In this brave acknowledgment or advance ac- 
ceptance of failure, there is something very 
moving. Moreover, the acceptance of defeat was 
in fact the signal of a victory. A Long Day's 
Journey into Night, sheer dogged prose from be- 
ginning to end, achieves in fact a peculiar jjoeti y, 

and the relentless amassing of particulars takes 
on, eventually, some of the crushing force of in- 
exorable logic that we find in Racine or in a 
Greek play. The weight of circumstance itself 
becomes a fate or Nemesis. This is the closest, 
probably, that realism can get to tragedy. 

The "stammering" of O'Neill was what made 
his later plays so long, and the stammering, 
which irritated some audiences, impatient for 
the next syllable to fall, was a sign of the author's 
agonized determination to be truthful. If O'Neill 
succeeded, at last, in deepening the character 
of his realism, it was because the missing element 
he strove to represent was not, in the end, 
"poetry" or "beauty" or "philosophy" (though 
he sometimes seems to have felt that it was) but 
simply meaning— the total significance of an ac- 
tion. What he came to conclude, rather wearily, 
in his last plays was that the total significance of 
an action lay in the accumulated minutiae of that 
action and could not be abstracted from it, at 
least not by him. There was no truth or meaning 
beyond the event itself; anything more (or less) 
would be a lie. This pun or tautology, this con- 
undrum, committed him to a cycle of repetition, 
and memory, the mother of the Muses, became 
his only muse. 


TH E younger American playwrights— Mil- 
ler, Williams, Inge, Chayefsky— now all 
middle-aged, are pledged, like O'Neill, to veri- 
similitude. They purport to offer a "slice of life" 
—in Tennessee Williams' case a rich, spicy slab 
of Southern fruit cake, but still a slice of life. 
The locus of their plays is the American porch 
or back yard or living-room or parlor or bus 
station, presented as typical, authentic as home- 
fried potatoes or "real Vermont maple syrup." 
This authenticity may be regional, as with Wil- 
liams and Chayefsky (a New Orleans slum, a 
Long Island synagogue), or it may claim to be as 
broad as the nation, as with Arthur Miller, or 
somewhere rather central, in between the two, 
as with William Inge. But in any case the prom- 
ise of these playwrights is to show an ordinary 
home, an ordinary group of bus passengers, a 
typical manufacturer, and so on, and the drama- 
tis personae tend to resemble a small-town, non- 
blue-ribbon jury: housewife, lawyer, salesman, 
chiropractor, working man, schoolteacher. . . . 
Though Tennessee Williams' characters are 
more exotic, they too are offered as samples to the 
audience's somewhat voyeuristic eye; when 
Williams' film. Baby Doll, was attacked by 

BY MARY McCarthy si 

Cardinal Spellman, the director (Elia Kazan) 
defended it on the grounds that it was true to 
the life that he and Williams had observed, on 
location, in Mississippi. If the people in Ten- 
nessee Williams' plays were regarded as products 
of the author's imagination, his plays would lose 
all their interest. /There is always a point in any 
one of Williams' dramas where recognition gives 
way to a feeling of shocked incredulity; this 
shock technique is the source of his sensational 
popularity. But the audience would not be elec- 
trified il it had not been persuaded earlier that it 
was witnessing something the author vouched for 
as a common, ordinary occurrence in the Amer- 
ican South. 

Unlike the other playwrights, who make a 
journalistic claim to neutral recording, Arthur 
Miller admittedly has a message. His first Broad- 
way success. All My Sons,, was a social indictment 
taken, almost directly, from Ibsen's Pillars of 
Society. The coffin ships, rotten, unseaworthy 
vessels calked over to give an appearance of 
soundness, became defective airplanes sold to the 
government by a corner-cutting manufacturer 
during the second world war; like the coffin ships, 
the airplanes are a symbol of the inner rottenness 
of bourgeois society, and the sins of the lather 
are visited on the son, a pilot who cracks up in 
the Pacific theatre (in Ibsen, the ship-owner's 
boy is saved at the last minute from sailing on 
The Indian Girl). 

The insistence of this symbol and the vague- 
ness or absence of concrete detail express Miller's 
impatience with the particular and his feeling 
that his play ought to say "more" than it ap- 
pears to be saying. Ibsen, even in his later, 
symbolic works, was always specific about the 
where, when, and how of his histories, but Miller 
has always regarded the specific as trivial and has 
sought, from the very outset, a hollow, reverber- 
ant universality. The reluctance to awaken a 
specific recognition, for fear that a larger mean- 
ing might go unrecognized by the public, grew 
on Miller with Death of a Salesman— sl strong 
and original conception that was enfeebled by 
its creator's insistence on universality and by a 
too-hortatory excitement, i.e., an eagerness to 
preach, which is really another form of the same 
thing. Miller was bent on making his Salesman 
(as he calls him) a parable of Everyman, exactly 
as in a clergyman's sermon, so that the drama 
has only the quality— and something of the 
canting tone— of an illustrative moral example. 

The thirst for universality becomes even more 
imperious in A View from the Bridge, where the 
account of a waterfront killing that Miller read 



in a newspaper is accessorized with Greek archi- 
tecture, "archetypes," and, from time to time, 
intoned passages of verse, and Miller announces 
in a preface that he is not interested in his hero's 
"psychology." Miller does not understand that 
you cannot turn a newspaper item about Italian 
longshoremen and illegal immigration into a 
Greek play by adding a chorus and the pediment 
of a temple. Throughout Miller's long practice 
as a realist, there is not only a naive searching 
for another dimension but an evident hatred of 
and contempt for reality— as not good enough to 
make plays out of. 

It is natixral, therefore, that he should never 
have had any interest in how people talk; his 
characters all talk the same way— somewhat 
funereally, through their noses. A live sense of 
speech differences (think of Shaw's Pygmalion) 
is rare in American playwrights; O'Neill tried 
to cultivate it ("dat ol' davil sea"), but he could 
never do more than write perfimctory dialect, 
rather like that of somebody telling a Pat and 
Mike story or a mountaineer joke. The only 
American realist with an ear for speech, aside 
from Chayefsky, whose range is narrow, is Ten- 
nessee Williams. He does really hear his char- 
acters, especially his female characters; he has 
studied their speech patterns and, like Professor 
Higgins, he can tell where they come from; 
Williams too is the only realist who places his 
characters in social history. Of all the realists, 
after O'Neill, he has probably the greatest native 
gift for the theatre; he is a natural performer 
and comedian, and it is too bad that he suffers 
from the inferiority complex that is the curse of 
recent American realists— the sense that a play 
must be bigger than its characters. 

This is really a social disease— a fear of being 
underrated— rather than the claustrophobia of 
the medium itself, which tormented Ibsen and 
O'Neill. But it goes back to the same source: 
the depreciation of the real. Real speech, for 
example, is not good enough for Williams and 
from time to time he silences his characters to 
put on a phonograph record of his special poetic 
long-play prose. 

Williams' critters 

AL L dramatic realism is somewhat sadistic; 
an audience is persuaded to watch some- 
thing that makes it uncomfortable and from 
which no relief is offered— no laughter, no tears, 
no purgation. This sadism had a moral justifica- 
tion, so long as there was the question of the 
exposure of a lie. But Williams is fascinated by 

the refinements of cruelty, which with him be- 
come a form of aestheticism, and his plays, far 
from baring a lie that society is trying to cover 
up, titillate society like a peep show. The cur- 
tain is ripped off, to disclose, not a drab scene of 
ordinary life, but a sadistic exhibition of the 
kind certain rather specialized tourists ])ay to 
see in big cities like New Orleans. With Wil- 
liams, it is always a case of watching some mangy 
cat on a hot tin roof. The ungratified sexual or- 
gan of an old maid, a yoimg wife married to a 
homosexual, a subnormal poor white farmer is 
proffered to the audience as a curiosity. 

The withholding of sexual gratification from a 
creature or "critter" in heat for three long acts 
is Williams' central device; other forms of tor- 
ture to which these poor critters are subjected 
are hysterectomy and castration. Nobody, not 
even the SPCA, would argue that it was a good 
thing to show the prolonged torture of a dumb 
animal on the stage, even though the torture 
were only simulated and animals, in the end, 
would profit from such cases' being brought to 
light. Yet this, on a human level, is Tennessee 
Williams' realism— a^ cat, to repeat, on a hot tin 
roof. And, in a milder version, it is found again 
in William Inge's Picnic. 

No one could have prophesied, a hundred 
years ago, that the moral doctrine of realism 
would narrow to the point of becoming pornog- 
raphy, yet something like that seems to be hap- 
pening with such realistic novels as Peyton Place 
and the later John O'Hara and with one branch 
of the realist theatre. Realism seems to be a 
highly unstable mode, attracted on the one hand 
to the higher, on the other to the lower elements 
in the human scale, tending always to proceed 
toward its opposite, that is, to irreality, tracing a 
vicious circle from which it can escape only by 
repudiating itself. 

Realism, in short, is forever begging the ques- 
tion—the question of reality. To find the ideal 
realist, you would first have to find reality. And 
if no dramatist today, except O'Neill, can accept 
being a realist in its full implications, this is 
perhaps because of lack of courage. Ibsen and 
O'Neill, with all their dissatisfaction, produced 
major works in the full realist vein; the recent 
realists get discouraged after a single effort. Street 
Scene; All My Sons; The Glass Menagerie; Come 
Back, Little Sheba; Middle of the Night; perhaps 
Awake and Sing are the only convincing evidence 
that exists of an American realist school— not 
counting O'Neill. If I add Vk'ath of a Salesman 
and A Streetcar Named Desire, it is only because 
I do not know where else to put thein. 

Harper's Magazine, July 1961 


Quebec's Revolt 

against the 
Catholic Schools 

New voices — clerical and anticlerical — are 

shaking French Canada's educational system . . . 

and demanding change in its tradition-bound 

ways of living, thinking, and teaching. 

AF R I E N D of mine whom I shall call 
Marline came to lunch with me one day 
last week. She is a bright and well-informed 
French Canadian whose husband teaches at the 
University of Montreal, not far from my home. 
She herself attended one of the few girls' classical 
colleges, and took some university training in so- 
cial service work. She married Jean-Paul at 
twenty-two, younger than most French Canadian 
girls marry, and she has three sons. She remarked 
firmly one day that she wanted no more children, 
and when I raised an inquiring eyebrow, she 
said, "I don't have to confess everything I do to 
the priest." 

Her oldest boy is just beginning his classical 

course under the Jesuits, at eleven. It was of the 
second one, eight years old, still in public school 
(French and Catholic, of course) near home, that 
she began talking. 

"He is so nervous. I just don't know what to 
do with him. I wish his teachers wouldn't put so 
much emphasis on the catechism and all that. 
He keeps asking if he has to go to purgatory and 
he cries and has nightmares about the martyrs 
that they burned and shot with arrows, and 
about the Crucifixion. He is too sensitive. The 
other children don't seem to worry like that. 
Jean-Paul says if he is so unhappy maybe we 
ought to send him to a Protestant English school, 
but we'd have to say we're Protestants and we're 
not. We're French Canadian Catholics and so is 
he, and we want him to grow up in his own 
milieu— you know what I mean. Maybe an 
English private school? But then he'd still be 
apart from his own people. I guess the only 
way is to make our schools change— but that takes 
so long." 

We were speaking English, as we usually do, 
but then she switched to French, so I knew she 
was deeply concerned and thinking out loud. "It 
would be hard to take him out of the Catholic 
school, for one reason because Jean-Paul's father 
loves our children so, and would feel so grieved. 
He is, well, a darling, but a little bit old- 
fashioned. He thinks I ought to be more strict 
with the children. He even doesn't like it at all 
that the Cardinal has relaxed the hours for fast- 
ing before mass— he says he's always fasted twelve 
hours and he always will. For me, I've never 
bothered much. You've seen me eat meat on 
Friday lots of times—" she smiled at me. "But 
even though I'm careless, I don't want to give up 
my religion, it's a comfort to me in trouble. Jean- 
Paul feels the same as I do. It's our way of life. 
But I signed the petition." 

"Petition?" I said vaguely. 

"Yes, you know, the petition eight hundred 
women signed— imagine, eight hundred of us— 
asking the Provincial Government to give us free 
public schools run by the Government. We want 
a Ministry to run the schools, not the clergy. But 
I don't want to get rid of the Church, I truly 
don't. I just want them to mind their own busi- 

I was startled to see tears in the eyes of my gay, 
worldly friend. It came to me how rending to 
luany French Canadians is this present "crisis of 
anticlericalism," as the Church calls it. They are 
a religious people, in spite of their frequent ir- 
reverent jokes and blasphemy. Their Church has 
stood for more than three centuries as defender 



of their language and their national life against 
the hostile English-speaking world around them. 
It consecrates the rites that mark the stages 
of their lives, christening, first communion, mar- 
riage, and burial. Nuns and priests have come 
from their families, though now they are mostly 
from the generation over forty. 

It is curious that many Americans were 
worried lest a Catholic President might facilitate 
Catholic control of American schools, while in 
next-door Quebec anticlericals who are them- 
selves Catholics in good standing are trying to 
put laymen in control of theirs. A few of the 
Church's opponents are of course atheists and 
anti-Church as well as anticlerical, but they are 
not the most influential. There are all shades of 
opinion, and all are being loudly expressed— 
which itself is a new thing in Quebec. Not since 
the 1890s, when school reform came close to be- 
ing achieved, has there been such outspoken 
criticism of the clergy. 


AT BASE, the ferment is due to the tre- 
mendous change in Quebec's social struc- 
ture in the past twenty years, its vast industrial 
development, its urbanization. Now, hardly a 
fifth of the population lives on the farms. The 
cities bulge, the suburbs spread, the slums blight 
I he centers. Practically all city French Canadians 
are bilingual. They have to be, though English 
Canadians arc recognizing the need to speak 
French and are making progress at it. Quebec 
has been pitchforked into the modern world. 
Women leave their homes to work, to run their 
own businesses, to teach in the university, and to 
be jomnalists and lawyers and doctors and what 
they please. In some ways French Canadian 
women are more emancipated than English 
Canadian women. They speak up loud and clear 
in politics. The widow of former Premier Sauve 
has just been chosen Quebec Conservative leader, 
and she is no figurehead. 

Some people in the Province want a separate 
national Quebec, but most French Canadians, 
feeling a new pride in their country, simply want 
to be recognized as first-class Canadians. They 
are not French and don't want to be. They want 
to control their own Province, and they resent 
the economic hold of English, English Canadians, 
and now Americans on their mines and forests 
and factories. To take their rightful place in 
Canadian and North American life, they believe 
better education is the first essential, and that 
includes political education. 

An important force in the upheaval has been 
a small monthly magazine called Cite Lihre, 
which can be conventionally described as left- 
wing Catholic. It has been published for ten 
years now, growing slowly in size and circidation, 
with an influence out of proportion to the num- 
ber of its subscribers. Edited by French Cana- 
dians, some of whom have degrees from Harvard 
and London as well as the Sorbonne, it has given 
a voice to the disquiet of the intellectuals at the 
corruption of politics, the failures of the schools, 
the bankruptcy of clerical leadership in too many 
cases. One of its former contributors became 
Minister of Public Works in the present Pro- 
vincial Cabinet, and set in motion some 
drastic reforms. Citr Lihre has shocked and 
angered many people, but it has been an oasis of 
free speech. 

Among the signs of a new realistic attitude to 
the Church is the decision of the "Catholic 
Syndicates" to drop the word "Catholic" from 
their name, becoming "National" unions instead. 
Another straw in the wind was the remark made 
to a young novelist after the publication of her 
first book. "It would have had better reviews if 
it hadn't been 'sponsored by a priest." When a 
bishop in Gasped advised the hospitals in his 
diocese about the conditions under which the 
nuns who run them should sign up for the na- 
tional health-insurance plan, and so caused de- 
lay, he was slapped down in the Quebec Parlia- 
ment by the deputy from his constituency, and 
told to "take account of his role." 

Such irreverence would have been inconceiv- 
able a few years ago. 

The widespread discontent comes to a focus 
on the public schools. Run by the clergy since 
Quebec was first settled, they have educated 
priests and lawyers, but far too few of the men 
and women Quebec has long needed— the en- 
gineers, chemists, physicists, biologists, business- 
men, economists, bankers, all the technicians of 
our industrial society. They prepare for life no- 
where except in Quebec, and not very well for 
that. The structure of the system has hardly 
changed since 1875. The Provincial Government 
controls only the sixty-odd technical schools, 
agriculture, apprenticeship, handicraft, and the 

Miriam Chapin has known Montreal for nearly 
thirty years and reported on Canadian affairs in 
many American magazines. She now spends ivinters 
there and summers in Vermont, thirty miles from 
her childhood home. The most recent of her four 
books is "Contemporary Canada" (published in 
1959 by the Oxford University Press). 



like. For the rest, it appoints a Council of Pub- 
lic Instruction, composed of a Catholic and a 
Protestant Committee, who have met together 
once in fifty years. 

Half the Catholic Committee must be bishops 
and archbishops. They hold office for life, 
supreme over the million Catholic schoolchildren 
of Quebec, four-fifths of the Provincial school 
population. They lay out the course of study, 
approve the textbooks largely written to their 
specifications, set the qualifications for teachers. 
What they have given the Province is the "con- 
fessional" school, the school so soaked in Catholi- 
cism that even problems in arithmetic add num- 
bers of angels or lay out building plans for 
churches. History is disproportionately concerned 
with Quebec's colonial days and nationalist 
struggle; much of the reading is devotional; 
while an hour or more a day is given over to 
prayer and catechism. Many of the teachers 
come from some religious order, and work for 
lower pay than the lay teachers, who naturally 
resent that situation. Many teachers have never 
been out of Canada; almost all come from 
Quebec itself. Far too many pupils, bored and 
rebellious, drop out at fourteen to take some 
dreary factory job, and in bad times they make 
up the lines of unemployed. 

Until 1942 attendance at school was not com- 
pulsory, because the doctrine of the Church is 
that education must be a matter for parents and 
clergy; the state has no right to interfere. But 
the state has had to interfere more and more, 
with grants and subsidies and the assumption of 
local school-commission debts, because the real- 
estate taxes which were once supposed to support 
the schools are so painfully insufficient. The De- 
partment of Public Instruction within the Pro- 
vincial Government sends inspectors to the 
schools, runs normal schools, approves school 
construction, and other things, but it is sub- 
ordinate to the Council of Public Instruction. 
If there were a real Ministry of Education, the 
Council would be reduced to an advisory func- 
tion. As of now, voters have little or no say about 
the education their children get. 

The stronghold of the Church is the classical 
college. There are sixty of them, fifteen for girls, 
all but one run by religious orders such as the 
Jesuits, Sulpicians, Clercs de St. Viateur, and so 
on, or by the hierarchy of a diocese. A boy enters 
at eleven or twelve for an eight-year course in 
Greek, Latin, English, French literature, rhetoric 
(every educated French Canadian is expected to 
be a polished speaker), versification, mathematics, 
philosophy, with precious little science. Orders 

of nuns run the colleges for girls. A few 
girls go to the fashionable convents. A French 
Canadian visitor recently wrote of a visit to an 
Ursuline convent, "It is stuck in the Middle Ages. 
For the pupils, religion seems reduced to the 
morality which is taught them. It stinks in their 
noses, and so does religion. They will abandon 
it when they leave." 

When a boy graduates from classical college, 
he receives a degree granted by the university, 
the "baccalaureate." It means nothing outside 
Quebec. There, it admits him to the university 
for three years of law, medicine, or arts. Until 
ten years ago a boy whose family could not pay 
the tuition and board charged by a classical col- 
lege found his way barred to the university. 
While fees are not high, they make a heavy 
burden for a family with three or four children 
to educate at a time. After the war, rude 
democracy crept in, and the school commissions 
were forced to open some high schools, all too 
few. Now nearly half the university students 
come from that background, and the universi- 
ties have to provide undergraduate courses for 

The system is still awkwardly adapted to these 
exigencies, and the whole field of secondary edu- 
cation is in a state of general confusion. It was 
designed to form an elite and concerned itself 
not at all with the proletarian mass. The push 
from below sends it into a dither. Shall the 
classical colleges become public schools? Shall 
more bursaries (scholarships) be given? Who 
shall teach what? An Irish Catholic who worked 
for the Montreal School Commission (Irish 
Catholics always have at least one representative 
on the Catholic Commission, but they never 
think they get a fair deal from the French 
majority) said to me years ago, "The French'll 
be chasing those Brothers of theirs down the street 
with rocks one of these days. You'll see." 


NOW the Church is under attack from the 
teaching Brothers themselves, those hum- 
blest of all the clergy. The sensation of the 
winter was a thin paperback, Les Insolences du 
Frere Untel (Brother So-and-so), which sold more 
than 100,000 copies. Written by a Marist Brother, 
published without the impnmat\ir, the nihil 
obstat of the Church, it is a harsh arraignment 
of the Church's schools and of the Church itself, 
by a young man who writes poetically of the love 
and devotion he offers to the Virgin Mary, who 
declares that he is in and of the Church, that he 


will remain all his life in the order whose vows 
he took. 

From that background he talks of the bad 
teaching in the schools, the abominable French 
that is spoken by both teachers and pupils, the 
atmosphere of fear that pervades the educational 
system. He says, "Historically our Catholicism 
is Counter Reformation. Add to that the Protes- 
tant Conquest . . ." (He means the English con- 
quest of Quebec since 1763, never forgotten by 
French Canadians.) "And you have our Catholi- 
cism—shriveled, timid, ignorant, reduced to a 
sexual morality, and negative at that." His 
superior backed him up, saying, "We have raised 
enough sheep, it's time we raised some shep- 

The discussion since has been unprecedented 
at all levels. A French Canadian who sends his 
children to an English Canadian private school 
told me, "I don't want to. French is part of their 
heritage, and I am cheating them out of it, at 
least partly. But I can't stand the prayers any 
longer, and the constant demand for complete 
submission to authority." A rather uneducated 
woman said to me, voicing a point of view I 
hadn't heard elsewhere, "We've got to do some- 
thing. All these immigrants coming in have so 
much better education than our boys, they're 
grabbing all the good jobs." It is true that 
Montreal is now a tenth European. 

An editor of Lc Devoir, Montreal daily, com- 
plained that so many of the letters pouring in 
about the schools demanded anonymity. "Why 
all this fear?" he asked. One of the unsigned 
missives spoke of the conspiracy of silence which 
reigns about education at all stages, "as if the 
expression of a legitimate discontent would shake 
the Church." But that is just the trouble; it 
does. Church and School are inseparable. An 
old bishop summed up the dread that besets him 
and his colleagues when he blurted, "How can 
we recruit young men for the priesthood if we 
do not control the schools?" 

According to Paul-Emile Cardinal Leger, Arch- 
bishop of Montreal, Quebec lacks five himdred 
priests; he could place that many at once if he 
had them. They are not forthcoming, in a Prov- 
ince where it used to be the pride of every 
Catholic family to give at least one son to the 
Church. So while the wave of criticism flows 
ovei" the schools, it laps at the foundations of the 
Church itself. I was taken aback one day when I 
asked the opinion of an older woman whom I 
h'dxc long known as devout, obedient to the 
Church's rules and genuinely loyal. She said 
unhappily and very seriously, "It is Loo bad we 

had no share in the French Revolution here. The 
Church in France [where she spends her sum- 
mers] is far more enlightened than ours, more 
liberal, more intelligent, more beloved. I am 
afraid of what is coming here." 



N THE midst of the commotion over the 

lower schools— the demands for less religion 
and more practical instruction— the Jesuits chose 
the moment to toss a few buckets of gasoline on 
another inflammable spot. The French-speaking 
Jesuits want to combine two classical colleges in 
Montreal, add a few advanced courses, and get a 
university charter from the Government for the 
product. The Irish Jesuits want to raise to uni- 
versity status their Loyola College in Montreal, 
which is now more like a small American de- 
nominational college than like the Quebec 
classical variety. 

Quebec has three French-speaking universities 
—Montreal, Laval, and Shcrbrooke— and three 
English-speaking on^s. All except McGill are 
gasping for funds; they are privately endowed 
to begin with, but they survive on Federal and 
Provincial grants. The University of Montreal 
set up a howl at the Jesuit proposal, and its 
professors issued a paperback. The University 
sny.s NO to the Jesuits. They said such new in- 
stitutions would draw off some of their best 
teachers, too many of whom head for the higher 
salaries south of the border anyhow, and would 
doom all the universities to mediocrity. What 
most of those protesting really want is a univer- 
sity run by laymen— all the present French-speak- 
ing ones are imder the Church— free of clerical 
domination, free to discuss anything they choose, 
free to pursue research wherever it leads. Ob- 
viously, granting two new charters to the Jesuits 
would stymie any such project for years to come. 
Besides, the Jesuit move has stimidated several 
small cities to dream of making their classical 
colleges into universities. Trois Rivieres has even 
ajjplied to Parliament for a charter. Such whole- 
sale creation of universities would end by mak- 
ing ihc title pretty meaningless. 

The Jesuits say that in ten years new univer- 
sities will be needed for Quebec's growing popu- 
lation, that students from f)ihcr Provinces who 
now have to attend non-Catholi( universities will 
be glad to come to Quebec. French communities 
in all Canadian Provinces want their own schools, 
and some have them, but each Province deals 
\viih education irulcj^endcniiy. and they vary 
widely in the way they treat tlie French minori- 


ties. The Jesuits believe now is 
the time to prepare to gather in 
both English and French from out- 
side Quebec, and to take care of 
the boys now in lower schools. 

In Montreal I talked with 
Father Gerard Plante, who is Di- 
rector of Studies for all the Jesuit 
colleges in Canada. "Lay teach- 
ers?" he said. "But why not? 
We have them now. We need the 
university charter for the progress 
of education in Quebec. We need 
it to meet the fast-growing re- 
quirements of French Canadian 
society." He spoke with en- 
thusiasm and conviction. 

Other Jesuits cite their vast 
experience in education, their 
learned doctors— whose doctorates 
are usually in the humanities, a 
field where no Catholic would 
dispute their competence. But it 
is science that Quebec pants for. The Montreal 
English newspapers support the Irish campaign 
to make Loyola a university— which does it no 
good at all with French Canadians. The Quebec 
Government has put off its decision until a Royal 
Commission on Education which it has ap- 
pointed can report next year. Quebec is in for 
a year or more of polemics. 


THESE arguments have become political 
issues— as do most things in Quebec. The 
remnants of the late Premier Duplessis' party, 
now in opposition to the Liberals who won last 
June's election, accuse the Government of 
Premier Jean Lesage of wishing to betray the 
Church, of plotting to do away with the confes- 
sional school. A lot of his followers undoubtedly 
do want to, but their leaders stoutly deny the 
imputation. After all, the Church still carries a 
lot of weight at election time. 

So the Government protests that it reveres the 
confessional school, that it will never never never 
appoint a Minister of Education, that it abhors 
the neutral school like the public school in the 
United States. But the moves that it is making, 
the extension of compulsory attendance through 
the ninth year (with the Cardinal's assent), the 
provision of stricter teacher training, of more 
scientific courses, the promise of free tuition- 
even through university some day— the plans for 
regional secondary schools with "mixed" classes. 

Willard Goodman 

where boys and girls study together, all tip the 
balance toward state control. Since Government 
pays the piper, it will some day call the tune. It 
appeals strongly to the renascent nationalist 
movement in Quebec, when it points out that 
in order to survive in our world, French Cana- 
dians must have the best education available. 

A laymen's association to promote the non- 
confessional school has been organized, with some 
respected leaders and considerable enthusiasm. 
It would abolish religious entrance requirements, 
and open the doors to French-speaking Jews, 
French Protestants, nonbelievers. The first meet- 
ing of the "Mouvement laic de langue fran^aise" 
brought together six hundred persons. One 
speaker deplored the feeling of guilt, the belief 
in original sin which the schools impress on 
children's minds. An attack on religious teach- 
ing on these grounds instead of on those of 
expediency would make the controversy fiercer 
and extend it to the Protestant schools as well. 
As Pierre Trudeau, one of the editors of Cite 
Libre, remarked to me after that meeting, in a 
slangy French phrase hard to put in English, "I 
think we shook out the rivets." 

The university students, who know by recent 
experience what the confessional school is like, 
are taking an active part in the fight to laicize 
education. The student magazine at the Univer- 
sity of Montreal, Le Qiinrtier Latin, headed a 
biting editorial addressed to the clergy of Quebec, 
"C'est le peiiple a geiioux qui releve la tete": 
"The Kneeling People Lift Their Heads." 

Harper's Magazine, July 1961 

^^The Footnote-and-mouth disease 



On the strength of a Grant-in-Aid from CBS, 

a television writer for the Hallmark "Hall of 

Fame," "Ellery Queen," and other popular story 

programs, dives bravely into the maelstrom of 

Recognized Sources and Bibliographic Research. 

AW OMAN comes home from an after- 
noon bridge game and says to her hus- 
band: "Floss is definitely leaving Joe." Her 
husband says: "Who told you?" 


"Where'd Mabel hear it?" 

"Lucy told her." 

"Who told Lucy?" 

"I don't know." 

Her husband looks unconvinced, so she adds: 
"It must be true, it's all over town!" 

In social circles, this method of conveying in- 
formation is known as Gossip. In academic circles 
it's known as Historical Resc;uch. I will tell you 
how you find this out. 

You're a writer. As part of a TV project, 
you're doing research on the Alien and Sedition 
Acts. Which is why, one rainy winter evening, 
you're lying on the sofa with your shoes off, read- 
ing the Congressional Record for 1798. You come 
upon a si/zling speech delivered by a Congress- 
man from New York named Edward Livingston. 

You think you may need him in the TV script. 

Accordingly, next» morning, you go down to 
the Public Library to look up the life of Edward 
Livingston. You consult first— de rigueur— the 
Dictionary of American Biography, published un- 
der the auspices of the American Council of 
Learned Societies and known in historical re- 
search as The Bible. Hereinafter referred to as 
the D.A.B. 

In the D.A.B. account of Livingston's life, you 
read: "In 1782 he began the study of law at 
Albany in the office of John Lansing [q-v.] where 
he found as fellow students Alexander Hamilton, 
Aaron Burr, and James Kent." 

("Floss is definitely leaving Joe.") 

("Who told youf") 

The most recent book on the subject is Edward 
Livingston, Jeffersonian Republican and Jack- 
sonion Democrat, by W. B. Hatcher. 


You get Hatcher off the shelf. Hatcher says 
Livingston studied law in Albany with John 
Lansing. "Here he was thrown into intimate 
contact with such brilliant legal minds as Alex- 
ander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, and James Kent." 

("Where'd Mabel hear it?") 

Hatcher's bibliography directs you to the Life 
of Edward Livirigston by C. H. Hunt. 

("Lucy told her.") 

You consult Hunt. Hunt says that Hamilton, 
Burr, and Kent were "intimate fellow-students of 

' Quoted from Sir Arthur Quillcr-Couch who got it 
ironi a professor of his whose name he didn't mention. 

Livingston's" and that the four "met outside the 
office and tirelessly argued legal topics and 
methods of study." 

("Who told Lucy?") 

You look for a footnote. There isn't any. You 
look for a bibliography. There isn't any. (It's 
an old book.) 

("I don't know.") 

You go back to the D.A.B. bibliography on 
Livingston. It includes, among others, a book on 
the Livingston family and four magazine articles 
on Edward. You consult all five. 

The book on the Livingston family repeats 
the story. A footnote gives Hunt, Life of Edivard 
Livingston, as its source. Three of the four arti- 
cles repeat the story. In footnotes, two cite Hunt 
as their source, one cites Hatcher. 

("It must be true, it's all over town!") 

You hit upon a simple way to check the story. 
You go back to the D.A.B. and look up, in order, 
Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, and James 

When the library closes, you go home, mix 
yourself a stiff martini, and crouch over it for a 
while, oppressed by a feeling that you're not 
doing very well. 

What bothers you is not that while Edward 
Livingston was studying law in the office of John 
Lansing in Albany,' James Kent was studying law 
in the office of Egbert Benson in Poughkeepsie,^ 
and Aaron Burr had finished studying with Wil- 
liam Paterson in Raritan, New Jersey, and moved 
on to the office of an unnamed lawyer in Haver- 
straw, New York.^ Or even that Alexander Ham- 
ilton either "studied law in the office of Colonel 
Robert Troup in Albany,"^ or "rented a house in 
Albany and took Robert Troup to live with 
him,"' or "received all his legal training in New 
York City."* 

What bothers you is: are you sure? If so, of 
what? All you are sure of is that each professor 
(most of the Recognized Sources were college pro- 
fessors) copied out what he read in the books of 
his predecessors— getting it from Mabel who got 
it from Lucy who got it from Pearl who got it 
God-knows-where— and then listed all of them 
solemnly as a bibliography. 

A little gin does wonders, however, and pres- 
ently you begin to feel more cheerful. For one 
thing, you've at least found out who Edward 
Livingston was. And for another, you may not 
even need him in the cast. 

' Opus cit. 

^ D.A.B. 

^ Portrait of a Prodigy by Loth. 

* History of the New York Bench and Bar, 


A month later you have finished the out- 
line on the Alien and Sedition Acts— and you 
didn't need Livingston in the cast. You 
didn't need historians either: you used the Con- 
gressional Record, transcripts of the Sedition 
trials, and other original sources such as diaries 
and newspapers of the day. No footnotes. No 
bibliography. A man's life, however, is a different 
matter. And having finished the TV project, you 
once more wander into the Public Library in 
search of Edward Livingston. 

Thirteen biographies, twenty-nine histories of 
the period, nine magazine articles, seven memoirs, 
four essays, four lectures, three journals, three 
annals, two diaries, two memorials, one master's 
thesis, one monograph, five libraries, and six 
months later, you still haven't found him. But 
you've acquired a collection of facts straight out 
of Gilbert and Sullivan. 

Three things happen to gossip in the retelling: 
(1) somebody gets it wrong; (2) somebody garbles 
it; and (3) somebody embroiders it. Herewith a 
sample from each category: 

(1. Somebody got it wrong.) Either Edward 
Brockholst and John R. Livingston founded the 
city of Esperanza on the Hudson in 1807.' Or 
La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt visited Esperanza 
on the Hudson in 1795.^ 

(2. Somebody garbled it.) Either "Gulian C. 
Verplanck . . . despite his Federalist and aristo- 
cratic background . . . began uttering heresy as 
early as 1790. Perhaps it was the influence of 
Edward Livingston with whom he studied for 
two years. "^ Or Gulian C. Verplanck was born 
in 1784 and entered the office of Edward Living- 
ston in 1801.* Or Gulian C. Verplanck was born 
in 1786 and studied law with Edward Livingston.^ 
Or Gulian C. Verplanck was born in 1786 and 
studied law with Josiah Ogden Hoffman." 

Any way you take it— and despite his Federalist 
and aristocratic background— Gulian C. Ver- 
planck was uttering heresy at the age of six or 
the age of four. 

(3. Somebody embroidered it— or Gossip Run 

When Livingston was a child, the British in- 
vaded Livingston Manor and set fire to the 

' Tlie Hudson, by Carl Carmer. 

- Travels in America, vol. II, by La Rochefoucauld- 

^Decline of Aristocracy in N. Y. Politics, hy Dixon 
Ryan Fox. (The italics are mine; also. I imagine. Gu- 
lian C. Verplanck's.) 

* "Address to the Century Club," bv Daly, April 9, 

^ Courts and Lawyers of New York. 

"D.A. B. 



manor house in which he was born. Before the 
invaders arrived, Edward's mother, Margaret 
Beekman Livingston (the "high-bred dame" here- 
inafter referred to) piled her children and posses- 
sions into wagons and fled to Connecticut. 

According to Lucy (Hunt, Life of Edioord 
Livingston): "Let the reader picture to himself— 
what actually occurred— that high-bred dame, at 
the very moment of starting upon this journey, 
enjoying a hearty laugh at the figure made by a 
favorite servant, a fat old Negro woman, perched 
in solemn anxiety at the top of one of the wagon 

Sixty or seventy years later and according to 
Mabel (Carl Carmer, The Hudson): "At Cler- 
mont ... a train of wagons filled with silver . . . 
furniture . . . bedding . . . was on its way to Con- 
necticut. In one of them sat stalwart Margaret 
Beekman Livingston . . . laughing heartily at 
her fat black cook who sat on a pile of kitchen 
utensils and directed her little grandson's driving 
efforts with energetic thrusts of a long-handled 
toasting fork." 

Enter Mrs. Julia Delafield with another ver- 
sion. But Mrs. Delafield's maiden name was 
Li\ingston, and her grandmother (the Gertrude 
in her story) was Edward Livingston's sister. Says 
Mrs. Delafield (Life of Morgan Lewis): "The 
mother and her daughters crowded into the fam- 
ily coach. Gertrude looked out of the back win- 
dow and was so diverted by the ludicrous figure 
of an overgrown Negress perched on top of a 
feather bed and rolling helplessly from side to 
side that for a moment she forgot her grief and 
laughed aloud. Her mother turned to her and 
said, 'Oh, Gertrude, can you laugh now?' " 

Mrs. Delafield then adds: "I related this anec- 
dote which I have heard repeatedly from the 
culprit herself, to Mr. Hunt, the biographer of 
Edward Livingston. He misunderstood me." 

("Yon knoxv Lucy, she never gets anything 

SPURRED on by such nuggets as this one, 
and having run out of New York City 
libraries to "research" in, you are now ready for 
field trips. 

Thanks to assorted bibliographies, you have 
been told that two libraries— one nearby, one 
several hours away by train— have "large collec- 
tions of Livingston manuscripts." However, there 
were numerous branches of Livingstons, all in- 
sanely fertile. (There were, for instance, four 
Robert Livingstons alive at the same time, and 
three of them were Robert R. Tliere were three 
Henrys, two of them Henry B.; three Williams, 

three Johns, two Peter R.s, four Elizas, two 
Kittys, and a Gitty— that you know of.) You 
therefore write to both libraries to inquire 
whether their collections include data about your 
Livingston: Edward, 1764-1836. 

A charming letter from the distant library says 
that they have "five items" concerning Edward 
Livingston. Hot on the trail at last, you hurry 
off to Grand Central Station and board a train, 
which will take you to within nine miles of the 
library, from which point you ca)i take a cab. 

Arrived at the library, you are warmly wel- 
comed by the curator and taken to the Special 
Collections Room. Your roll of microfilm is in- 
serted in the machine, and you are left alone, pen 
poised, to await the five items. 

Item One: Rent receipt issued by E. Livingston 
to a tenant. 

I tern Tiuo: Rent receipt issued by E. Livingston 
to a tenant. 

Item Three: Rent receipt issued by E. Liv- 
ingston to a tenant. 

Item Four: Bill to E. Livingston from a coach 

Item Five: A note, on a small sheet of white 
paper, herewith reprinted in its entirety: 


I will be diere at eleven o'clock if 
I am not unexpectedly delayed at the office. 

No date, you may have noticed. No residence. 
No envelope, therefore no postmark. No ad- 
dressee also. Obviously delivered by hand to a 
fellow down the street. 

Back at home that night, there's a letter from 
the nearby library informing you that a professor 
is writing a life of Edward's brother and has 
therefore been given "exclusive use of the Liv- 
ingston manuscripts for one year." Why not get 
in touch with us a year from now? 

(You have a sudden vision of Arthur Miller 
arriving at Salem, Massachusetts, to do research 
for "The Crucible" and being told that Salem, 
Massachusetts, is closed for a year, some pro- 
fessor's using it.) 

The time has come to sit down, take off your 
shoes, cup yoiu" hands round a mug of last night's 
warmed-over coffee, and ask yourself: 

"Quo vadis?" 

In blithe disregard of the fact that you have 
two months' rent in the bank, no job, no pros- 
pects, nothing in the typewriter, and nothing in 
your agent's offuc, you have spent montlis chas- 
ing hither and yon looking for Edward Living- 
ston on the (hante that when you're rich you 
might take five years off and write his biography. 



You know now that a biography of Edward 
Livingston is not the job for yon. In Purgatory, 
you would ask for another assignment. 

At last you put away the bibliographies, the 
notebooks, the correspondence, the library slips 
and searcher's passes and Supplemental Lists of 
Recognized Sources. You get all of it out of sight 
and the phone rings. It's your agent. 

"How would you like," she says, "to do a very 
short American history book for children? Ten 
thousand words." 

No job. No prospects. Two months' rent in 
bank. You tell her you'd love it. 

"A-thousand-dollars-no-royalties," she says, very 
fast, and hangs up. 

A ten-thousand-word history pamphlet, you 
feel, should take two months of research and a 
month to write. If you took this up for a living 

you could make a cool $4,000 per annum, less 
taxes and agent's commission. 

On your way to the editor's office, you wonder 
what contributors to the D.A.B. were paid; and 
how much time they could afford to spend on 
their research. You wonder what publishers pay 
the college professors who write history books. 
You wonder how— since nobody ever buys these 
books but libraries— they can afford to pay them 

The editor wants to know if you can write the 
book in ten days. (I am not making this up.) 
You settle on three weeks. You complain of this, 
however, to an editor friend. Research, you point 
out to him, takes time. 

"Oh!" he assures you heartily, "you can do 
all that research at second hand. Just be sure 
you use Recognized Sources." 



Dear Sir: 

Your poem interested us 
Somewhat, but we do not consider it 
Entirely successful. For one thing. 
Your floral diction blooms in the right places. 
But there are bugs which seem almost deliberately 
Placed. Then, again, life breathes everywhere 
In your work, yet you cancel it 
Later in the lines with a disdain 
No artist with a trace of self-respect 
Would dare to show (not to mention compassion 
For the child of his brain, but let 
That pass). Do you have a friend 
Who might perhaps be willing to read your work 
Before you send it out? Just a suggestion, 
But beginners must be guided. Another thing: 
Your images, though pleasant taken singly. 
Fail to fuse properly. We find a sly 
Intent to suggest an over-all design, 
And yet the reader sees no real organic 
Whole. Your metaphors stand isolated; 
No poem can carry such disparities 
As shooting stars and glory-holes, no matter 
How securely yoked. Creation carries 
Certain responsibilities, and we 
Are unconvinced you have accepted these. 
There are other problems, of course. 
But our staff is limited, and time is short. 
You have, we feel, much to learn, but your talent 
Will help. 


The Editors. 

P.S. Since half the battle is knowing 

Your market, perhaps you would care to subscribe. 

Harper's Magazine, July 1961 




L O rv more tJian fifty years now — since 
May 1904 — / have been searching for a 
man I never saw. Though he died forty-five 
years ago, the search grows more intensive 
as I approach inevitably the time when I 
can no longer pursue it. The reason I con- 
tinue this search is that I owe this man a 
great debt. It zvould mean a lot to me if I 
could report to him how a long-shot invest- 
ment he ?nade in Texas finally turned out. 
Since I cannot report to William E. 
Hinds, I am doing the next best thing by 

reporting to other people— in hopes that at least 
some of them may be enriched by the spirit that 
animated this man. I think this would please 
him. Once when I tried to express my apprecia- 
tion, he wrote: "You cannot do anything for me, 
but if I help you now, perhaps in time you can 
help someone else." This is the nearest thing to 
applied Christianity that I know. 

He never told me much about himself and I 
did not inquire because a boy on a small farm 
in West Texas does not ask j^ersonal questions of 
a mysterious and wonderful benefactor in New 
York. He died before I had anything to say to 
him, before there was any return on his invest- 
ment, of Avhich I was the sole custodian. I knew 
what I owed him, but for a long time I feared 
that I might default on the obligation. As the 
years went by, I prospered in a moderate way 
and gradually rose in my profession of historian 

and writer. The greater my success, the greater 
became my sense of obligation to him. I have to 
find some way to partially discharge it. 

So this is a sort of public acknowledgment of 
the obligation. It is also an appeal for more 
information about William E. Hinds. Surely 
there are some still living in New York who knew 
him, and there may bt others elsewhere who were 
warmed by his spirit. Before I set down the 
scant facts I have about him, I must first tell 
how his life touched my own. 

My parents migrated from Mississippi to Texas 
about 1884, destitute products of the Civil War 
in search of a new opportunity. I was born in 
1888, and four years later they moved to West 
Texas. There I received the childhood impres- 
sions that account for the realism in my first 
book. The Great Plains. My father was a country 
schoolteacher, self-educated, and he never had 
more than a second-grade certificate. He was 
one of the last fighting teachers, employed to 
"hold school" in the country schools where the 
big boys had run the teacher off the year before. 
It was a rough life in a rough country. My 
father was usually paid a premium of $10 a 
month to teach these outlaw schools. He got $50 
or $60 a month for a five-month term— an annual 
income of $250 or $300, supplemented by what 
he earned in the summer farming or working at 
anything that came up, at about seventy-five 
cents or a dollar a day. 

I learned to read early, and by the time I was 
ten reading became a passion. Since my father 
was a teacher, we had books in the house, and 
both my parents were readers. At that time the 
most popular brand of coffee was put out by 
Arbucklc Brothers, and you could get ten pounds 
of it for a dollar. The beans came in one-pound 
paper bags, with Mr. Arbuckle's signature on 


the side; ii yon collected enough of his signa- 
tures, he would send you a premium. The first 
book I ever acquired for myself, ]ack the Giant 
Killer, cost me ten signatures. It was the first 
jjiece of mail that Uncle Sam ever brought to me, 
and I can never forget the thrill of receiving it 
at the Lacasa post office, the thrill of reading it 
on Old Charlie as I rode him home. It was the 
beginning of a long series of thrills and shocks 
that have come to me via the post office. 

Not only did I read everything in our house, 
but I scoured the country for three miles to come 
up with files of The Youth's Companion , The 
Saturday Blade, and TJie Chicago Ledger. From 
a peddler I acquired a big file of Tij) Top 
Weekly, which dealt ^vith the doings of Frank 
Merriwell, who seemed to be running things at 
Yale. As far as I can recall, this was the first 
lime I ever heard of college. From Frank Merri- 
well I got the first faint desire to go to college 
myself but it never occurred to me that I would 
ever do it. 

This reading opened up such a wonderful 
world that I developed an aversion to the one 
that lay around me. I wanted to get away from it 
into the world where the books were. 

When I was either twelve or thirteen, my 
father homesteaded a quarter section of land— 
160 acres— in Stephens County. This was about 
ihe last of the vacant land, since the open range 

Dr. Walter Prescott Webb has been described 
by "Time'' as "his generation s foremost philos- 
opher of the frontier, and the leading historian of 
the American West." Most of his honors came late 
in life. When he was seventy years old, in 1958, 
he was elected president of the American Historical 
Association, received a $10,000 award from the 
Council of Learned Societies, was made an honorary 
Doctor of Laws by the University of Chicago, and 
ivas named by ex-students of the University of Texas 
as one of its four most distinguished living alumni. 
His best-known books are "The Great Plains, ' 
"The Texas Rangers," "Divided We Stand," and 
"The Great Frontier." Dr. Webb has written many 
articles for "Harper s" and for historical journals. 
He was Distinguished Professor of History at the 
University of Texas, Harmsworth Professor at Ox- 
ford, and Harkness Lecturer at London University. 
Since his "retirement" in 1958, he has taught at 
Rice and the University of Houston, and now is 
working for the Ford Foundation on an experi- 
mental project for the teaching of history by closed- 
circuit television. He is the owner of Friday 
Mountain Ranch, which he describes as "overrun 
ivith foxes, bobcats, 'coons, and ring-tails." 

wds fast going under fence. The best land had 
already been taken, and this place lay back in 
what was called the Cross Timbers— deep sand 
with a red clay bottom, covered with scrub oak 
and blackjack. My father built a plank house in 
an open glade, and we began opening up a farm, 
the hardest work a boy can do. 

This land had once belonged to Phil S. Leh- 
man of New York, but he had wisely gone, off 
and forgotten all about it. When we had paid 
the back taxes and lived on it ten years, that 
made it ours according to Texas law. We didn't 
exactly steal it, but we were mighty glad when 
the ten years expired. During that time my 
mother was always apprehensive when a stranger 
poked his head out of the brush, and it was not 
until after the limitation had run that we 
widened the road. From the time I was thirteen 
until I was seventeen seems an eternity. When 
we plowed, we plowed in new, stumpy land, and 
when we were not plowing, we were making 
more stumps and more new ground. For at least 
two years I did not go to school at all because my 
father was away teaching in the winter, and I 
was the "man on the place" except on weekends. 

VERY early in my career, my father made 
a casual remark that had enormous influ- 
ence on my life. He said that when I grew up 
he wanted me to be an editor. Now I didn't 
know what an editor was, but his remark ex- 
cited my curiosity. I finally learned that an 
editor ran the local paper. One day when we 
were in Ranger, I made bold to go into the 
office of the Ranger Record, and there was the 
editor, whose name was Williams, pecking away 
on an Oliver typewriter. This was the first type- 
writer I had ever seen, and it fascinated me. I 
stood looking over Editor Williams' shoulder at 
this marvel until he suggested that I do some- 
thing else. By this time I had spied a treasure of 
untold magnitude, a great pile of "exchanges" 
which Editor Williams had thrown into a corner 
of the office because no wastepaper basket was 
big enough to contain them. Most of the pajjers 
were in the original wrappers, and all but the 
latest ones were covered with dust. I got up my 
courage to ask if I might have some of them, and 
the editor said go ahead. I carried off as many 
as I thought it would be seemly to try to get 
away with. 

Among them were several copies of The Sunny 
South, edited by Joel Chandler Harris and pub- 
lished in Atlanta, Georgia. The official records 
lell me that The Sunny South, a weekly, was "de- 
voted to literature, romance, fact, and fiction." 



It was then publishing A. Conan Doyle, Uncle 
Remus, Gelett Burgess, Will Irwin, and many 
other good writers, with lavish illustrations. It 
was wonderiul, but the tragedy was that I had 
only a few copies. 

In reading it, however, I learned that for ten 
cents I could have The Simriy Smith every week 
for three months. I did not have ten cents, and 
I knew of no way of getting such an amount of 
money. My father was working hard and I was 
almost afraid to approach him, though I know 
now that he probably would have given mc the 
dime had I asked at a propitious time. That 
winter he was away, and my mother and I often 
sat up late reading. One night I told her what I 
wanted, and why. She did not say anything, but 
I can see her now as she got up from her chair 
and went diagonally across the room in the yel- 
low light of a kerosene lamp, and extracted from 
some secret place a thin dime. It may have been 
the only coin in the house. 

That dime is the most important piece of 
money I have ever owned, for my entire life 
pivots on its shiny surface. It brought The Sunny 
South for three months, and soon the whole fam- 
ily was in love with it. There was never any 
troid)lc about renewing the subscription. 

The letler column in The Sunny South was 
presided over by Mrs. Mary E. Bryan. One day I 
sat down and wrote her a letter which had one 
(]ualiiy dear to an editor— brevity— and perhaps 
another essential to the writer, a willingness to 
l;i\ bare something deep in the human heart. 
I said I wanted to be a writer, to get an educa- 
tion. 1 mentioned that my father was a teacher, 
and thai lie had been crijjpled in an accident. I 
signed with my middle name, which I always 
liked because an uncle who had the name was 
something of a writer. 

The letter was published in the issue of May 
14, 1904. My father had come home from school, 
and we were then plowing corn with Georgia 
stocks. (A Georgia stock is a kind of one-horse 
plow.) The corn was less than a foot high. It 
was late in the afternoon, the time when the sun 
hangs unmoving in the sky for an incredible 
length of time. We were very tired and were 
sitting on the beams of our Georgia stocks letting 
the horses blow, when my sister came from the 
mail box of the new rural route which ran about 
a mile from the house and handed me a letter. 

Few such letters have ever been received by 
tired boys sitting on Georgia stocks in a stumpy 
field. The envelope was white as snow and of 
the finest paper; the ink was black as midnight; 
the handwriting bold and full of character, with 

fine dashes. The flap was closed by dark-red 
sealing wax stamped with the letter H. 
The address was: 




c/o Lame Teacher 

The letter bore a New York postmark. May 17, 
1904, hut there was no return address. The en- 
velope which lies before me noAv shows what care 
I used in opening this letter. It read: 




Dear Junior— I am a reader of the "Sunny South" and 
noticed your letter in the "Gossip Corner"— I trust 
you will not get discouraged in your aspirations for 
higher things, as you know there is no such word as 
fail, in the lexicon of youth: so keep your mind fixed 
on a lofty purpose and your hopes will be realized, I 
am sure, though it will take time and work.— I will 
be glad to send you some books or magazines, (if 
you will allow me to) if you will let mc know what 
you like— Yrs truly 

Wm. E. Hinds 

489 Classon Ave 

^ ,^, Brooklyn— New York 

May 16/04 ^ 

Now I realize how narrowly I missed this 
rendezvous with destiny. How did it come about 
that a letter addressed to "Prescott" reached me? 
The Sunny South came addressed to W. Prescott 
Webb, and it passed through the hands of Mr. 
John M. Griffin, the bewhiskered postmaster who 
was an ex-Confederate soldier. Since The Sunny 
South was pro-Confederate, Mr. Griffin got to 
reading my paper and fell in love with it. He 
and the rural mail carrier were probably the 
only people outside my family who knew that 
the name Prescott was really mine. 

Even so, that letter nearly missed its mark. 
The envelope bears the post-office stamp, 
"MissF.NT," but I have no idea where it went 
before reaching me. 

From that day on I never lacked for something 
to read— the best magazines in the land and oc- 
casional books. Every Christmas a letter would 
arrive from New York, and usually a tie of a 
quality not common in West Texas. 

These books and magazines fired to white heat 
my desire for an education. Evidently my father, 
who was not a demonstrative man, was touched 
by my fervor. The stumpy farm had expanded 
and because of my father's love for the soil and 
his understanding of the principles of dry farm- 
ing, it became productive. But there was still not 
enough of it, and we rented additional land from 




cy ^ 






the neighbors. One day when we were clearing 
land my lather asked me a question. 

"Do you think," he asked, "that il you had one 
year in the Ranger school you could pass the 
examination lor a teacher's certificate?" 

To that question the only answer was yes. 

"Well," he said, "it you will work hard, and 
il we make a good crop, we will move to Ranger 
lor one year and you can go to school." 

The year 1905 was one of the good years when 
the rains came. The fields produced bountilully, 
especially the new ground with the accumulated 
humus of a thousand years. The Ranger cotton 
gins ran day and night all fall. I know because 
I fed the suction pipe on Saturdays and after 
school. I had to make a sacrifice to go to school. 
Every boy in West Texas had a horse. Mine was 
a trim blue mare, close-built, easy to keep, fast, 
and lovely to look at. I sold her for $60 to get 
money for books; I got the tuition free by sweep- 
ing the school floors. 

I pored over my books because I had a con- 
tract to deliver a second-grade certificate in the 
spring. My extensive reading gave me some ad- 
vantage, but I had rough going with mathe- 
matics and grammar. I shall never forget J. E. 
Temple Peters, principal of the school and a 
near genius, who spent hours coaching a group 
of us to pass the examination at the county seat. 
When the time came, I had developed a severe 
( ase of tonsillitis, and my fever must have gone to 
103 and over. Peters, who was one of the ex- 
aminers, fed me aspirin while the fever fired my 
brain and seemed to sharpen all my facidties. I 
wrote on the eight required subjects for two 
days far into the night, but when I rose to turn 

in my papers I staggered in the aisle. There was 
never any thought of quitting. This was my only 

When school ended, I went back to the farm 
to await the decision of the examiners. Then one 
day there was an official envelope in the mail 
box. It was just a second-grade certificate which 
permitted me to teach in the rural schools, but 
to me it was a certificate of emancipation. I have 
acquired a good many parchments of finer qual- 
ity in my career, but this one outranks them all. 

MY father not only moved the family back 
to the farm, but he quit teaching to de- 
vote all his time to it. I began where he left off, 
and through his influence had no trouble in 
getting an appointment. As a matter of fact, I 
taught three schools in that year, one for six 
weeks, one for four months, and one for two. 
My salary ranged from $42.50 to $45 a month, 
and I saved a bigger proportion of it than I have 
ever saved since. I had an affair of conscience 
because of the short hours. I had been accus- 
tomed to working from ten to fourteen hours a 
day, and there seemed to be something immoral 
about quitting at four o'clock. 

With the money I saved I spent another year 
in school, and in the sjiring I passed the exam- 
ination for a first-grade certificate. Suddenly I 
became a success. I was employed at .175 a month 
to teach the Merriman school which my father 
had taught two years at .$60. (Underneath the 
stony Merriman school groimds and the nearby 
Baptist church yard lay a million or so barrels 
of oil, not to be found for ten years.) I was 
getting the maximum salary paid in the county 



schools. I was wearing good clothes and moving 
in the highest circles of local society, working 
five days a week and quitting when the sun was 
Irom two to three hours high. 

Then in the winter of 1909 everything 
changed. One cold day, so windy that the peb- 
bles from the playing field rattled like buckshot 
against the side of the school building, I walked 
down to the mail box and found a bulky letter 
from William E. Hinds. It was dated January 
9, 1909. Here are the most important para- 

My dear Friend. 

. . . We have not had much winter as yet but the 
last few days have been cold and presume we shall 
have our usual amount before spring. My sister went 
to Washington, D. C, for the holidays and was at the 
White House New Year's. Secretary Cortelyou is our 
cousin, so she was invited to stay at the White House 
for luncheon. . . . 

My friend. I wish you would irrite me what your 
plans and wishes are for the future. Wc all have 
plans and hopes for the future and it is well we have, 
even if they are not always realized. Come, let us be 
churns, and write me just ivhat is on your mind: 
perhaps I can help you and after all the best thing in 
life is to help some one, if we can. One would count 
it a great thing (to remember) if they had helped 
some one, that had afterwards become famous or 
great, say for instance Lincoln or Gladstone or any of 
the other great ones who were born a hundred years 
ago this year. And perhaps I can say, "Why I helped 
J. Prescott Webb when he was a young man."* And 
people may look at me, as a privileged character to 
have had the opportunity; so my boy tell me about 
your plans and hopes and then perhaps I may l)e able 
to help you carry them out. 

Are there any books which you would like? // so 
say so and let me send them to you. If you don't "say 
so" I may send them anyway. 

Your friend 
Wm. E. Hinds 

As an afterthought, he wrote on an extra 
sheet as follows: 

I am interested in your teaching. How many 
scholars and are they mostly from the farm or town? 
Teaching is good training and I know it will benefit 

Have you planned going to College in the fall, if 
you haven't planned it, is it something you would 
like to do, if so what College have you in mind? Now 
answer all these questions, please. 

At the time the letter came I had not thought 
seriously of going to college. That was some- 
thing for the sons of doctors and other prosper- 
ous people. Besides I was already a success, and 
rather enjoying the illusion. The letter faced 

* For years he did not get my first initial right, but 
addressed me as J. Prescott Wel)l). 

me about, and made what 1 was doing insig- 
nificant—a means only. 

I answered all his questions, telling him that 
I would like to go to the University of Texas. 
I had saved some money, for I had been at work 
three months, and I determined to save more. 
I reduced my social activity, and Avith some dif- 
ficulty restrained myself from making a bid for 
a girl I had a very hard time forgetting. The 
road ahead was rough enough for one, and too 
rough for tAvo. 

THUS it came about that in September 
1909, I boarded the train for Austin and the 
University of Texas with approximately $200. 
Our agreement was that I Avould spend my 
money, and when it played out, I would notify 
Mr. Hinds and he would send me a check each 
month. At the end of the second year, I owed 
him about ,S500, and he suggested that I should 
drop out and earn some money, saying that "I 
am not a rich man." I sent him a note for what 
I owed, but he woidd accept no interest. He 
never did. 

In 1911-12, I taught the Bush Knob school in 
Throckmorton County, S90 a month. I reduced 
the note and told him I would like to return to 
the imiversity. He approved, and I can simi it 
all up by saying that I never started a year at 
the imiversity that he did not see me through. 
He never refused any requests I made of him, 
though I am glad to remember that I kept them 
to the minimum. 

The nearest he ever came to a refusal was one 
summer when I made a good deal of money as a 
student salesman. I wrote Mr. Hinds that I 
wotdd like to come to New York to see him, and 
that I had the money. He advised me to apply 
it on my college education. I did, but I have 
always regretted that I never saw him. 

When I took the B.A. degree in 1915 I owed 
him something less than .$500, which was our 
limit. And here I need to say something about 
my college career. I was twenty-one years old 
when I entered college, and I had no preparation 
for it. I had skipped too many grades and too 
many years of schooling. I did not have en- 
trance credits, but because I was twenty-one the 
university admitted me on what is known as in- 
dividual approval. My career as an undergrad- 
uate was comjiletely huking in distinction. I 
made fair grades in most subjects, but none to 
make Hinds proud. He never asked a question 
about grades. He never admonished me to do 

But every month the check came. What he 



saw in me I have never been able to understand- 
but the tact that he saw something, that he seemed 
to believe in me, constituted a magnetic force 
that held me on the road. If I felt inclined to 
quit, or to go on a binge and spend money 
foolishly, as my friends often did, I could not do 
it for very long because there was a mysterious 
man in New York who trusted me. 

Equipped with the B.A. degree, I got a job as 
jjrincipal of the Cuero High School at SI. S3 a 
month. Then, in the fall of 1915 a letter came 
saying that William E. Hinds was dead. 

TH E lawyers found my note in his papers, 
and they began to write me crisp and 
business-like letters. They had me make a new 
note to his sister, Ida K. Hinds, for S265. It was 
co-signed by my father and bore interest. Then 
came a letter from Miss Hinds, who had spent 
her life as a teacher in the New York schools. 
She said that she had taken over the note, and 
that 1 would not be bothered with the lawyers 
any more. In the fall of 1916, I married Jane 
Oliphant, and moved to the San Antonio Main 
Avenue High School as a teacher of history. Miss 
Ida Hinds came down to spend a part of the win- 
ter at the Gunter Hotel and she was often our 

She told me about all I know of her brother; 
that he had never married, that he had helped 

other boys, and that he was an importer of 
European novelties. She implied that he was not 
intensively devoted to business, was rather casual 
about it. After his death I received an excellent 
photograph of Hinds, which is now before me. 
He had fine features, black hair, blue eyes, fair 
skin, a thin straight nose, and delicate ears. He 
wore a black mustache and had a full head of 
hair which appears to have been unruly. 

Why didn't I get from Miss Hinds the informa- 
tion I now seek about her brother? There is no 
satisfactory answer to the question, as I look 
back now. From where I stood then, the answer 
seems reasonable to me. It never occurred to me 
that I would write this story. At that time there 
was no story because I had done nothing to 
justify one, and I was not yet a writer. Even had 
I thought of it, I would have considered that I 
had plenty of time, for youth is not conscious of 
the brevity of life. Moreover, I had just married, 
and at such a time each day seems sufficient imto 

Miss Hinds did not remain in San Antonio 
very long. It was probably in January of 1917 
that she went to Los Angeles and took residence 
at 1316 South Vermont Avenue. Her first letter 
was dated February 18, 1917. 

Then a letter arrived postmarked Burlington, 
Vermont, April 18, 1918. It marked the end of 
the trail. Inside was an undated memorandum 

VERMONT by John Updike 

HERE green is king again, 

Usurping honest men. 

Like Brazilian cathedrals gone under to creepers. 

Gray silos mourn their keepers. 

Ski tows 

And shy cows 

Alone pin the ragged slopes to the earth 

Of profitable worth. 

Hawks, professors. 

And summering ministers 

Roost on the mountainsides of poverty 

And sniff the poetry, 

And every year 
The big black bear, 

Slavering through the woods with scrolling mouth, 
Comes further south. 



irom her to me, which read: "I enclosed your 
note in directed envelope so if anything happens 
to me, it will be sent to you. If you receive this, 
you will know that I have passed away and you 
are under no further obligation. Consider the 
matter closed as there is no one else that Avould 
be interested." 

The note she enclosed was for 3265 with 5 per 
cent interest. Endorsements on the back show 
that on April 17, 1917, I paid $100 principal 
and .$16.56 interest, leaving a balance of $165 
due in six months with interest "at 6% or 7%." 
The last endorsement is dated October 11, 1917, 
with a payment of $90 on the face of the note 
plus $5.68, leaving a balance of $75. 

That $75 has never been paid to anyone con- 
nected with Hinds. It has, however, been paid 
over and over to those who needed it, and it 
will be paid again in the future as Hinds would 
have wanted it. 

The act of this man is the unsolved mystery 
of my life. I have never been able to understand 
what motivated him. I find it easy enough to 
write a check for some student in temporary 
need, one that I can see and know, and I have 
written a good many such checks. But I still 
cannot understand how a man in New York City 
could reach far down in Texas, pluck a tired kid 
off a Georgia stock in a stumpy field, and stay 
with him without asking questions for eleven 
years, until death dissolved the relationship. 

He did not live long enough to see any sign 
that the investment he made was not a bad one. 
In 1918 I became a member of the faculty of 
the University of Texas. My development there 
was slow— I have been late all my life— and it was 
not until 1931 that I published my first book, 
The Great Plains. Others followed in due course, 
but it was not until after 1950 that things began 
to happen which might have gratified William 
E. Hinds. When these marks of recognition 
came, my satisfaction w^as always tinged with 
regret that he could not know about them. 

William E. Hinds was a great reader, and he 
probably was aware of Shelley's ironic lines: 

The seed ye sow, another reaps; 
The wealth ye find, another keeps; 
The robes ye weave, another wears; 
The arms ye forge, another bears. 

I have reaped where he sowed, and I wear 
what he wove. Indeed, I keep a part of the 
wealth he found, but I have tried to keep a little 
of the spirit with which he used it. His spirit has 
hovered over me all my life. His name appears 
in the Preface or Dedication of my major books. 

I cannot now better describe what he did for me 
than I did in TJie Texas Rangers: 

To the memory of 

He fitted the arrow to the bow 

set the mark and insisted 

that the aim be true 

His greatness of heart is known 
best to me. 

This is the end of the story. I appeal to those 
who read it, for more information about William 
E. Hinds. I would like to know when and where 
he was born, where he was educated, and what 
occupation he followed. If he helped other boys, 
as his sister stated, I would like to know who they 
are and what they did. His will might reveal 
something about his interests and activities. 

I have consulted with private detective agen- 
cies about making a search, but found them just 
as vague about what they would do as they were 
specific about fees. I admit that this investiga- 
tion should have been made long ago, but it was 
something easy to postpone. It might have been 
possible to make contact with the Cortelyou 
family, but I neglected to do it. While in New 
York once, I took a taxi to the place where 
William E. Hinds lived in Brooklyn, and I ran 
the index of the Neiv York Times in search of his 
obituary, but could not find his name. In Jan- 
uary 1961 I had a bout with the hospital and the 
surgeons, and came pretty close to losing. This 
was a warning that I could no longer delay; as 
soon as I was able, I went to work in earnest. 

I now summarize the facts I have about him. 
His full name was William Ellery Hinds. For 
several years after 1904 he lived at 489 Classon 
Avenue, Brooklyn, New York. He later moved to 
another address which I do not have. The only 
relatives he ever mentioned were his sister and 
some cousins, one of whom was George B. Cor- 
telyou, Secretary of the Treasury under Theodore 
Roosevelt after 1907. I do not know the exact 
date of his death, but it must have been in the 
autumn of 1915 because my note made out to 
Ida K. Hinds bears the date of January 25, 1916. 

The meager results of my search thus far sug- 
gest that if I remain silent, William E. Hinds 
may be forgotten. I want him to be remembered. 
Finally, it seems to me that what he did may 
encourage others to follow his example, and thus 
perpetuate his influence. He would want no 
better monument. 

Anyone having information about William E. 
Hinds should address W. P. Webb, University 
Station, Austin, Texas.— The Editors 

Harper's Mnguziue, July 1961 

William E. Hinds 

^?I,^,„.^^ Ck^ -'-t-^*-- 


The first letter jruin the Brookly}i stranger 


UKieXSKH tM 5 »A-r«l TO 

WM. 38!. HINDS 





*^'^^)\ -p-" ''\ 




Scallop Shell on the ocean floor ► 

How a 

Scallop Shell 


a world-famous 


• Seashells carried halfway around the world— from 
an ocean floor in the Orient to Marcus Samuel's curio 
shop near the London docks— started a chain of events 
that created one of today's best-known trademarks. 

Sailors coming olT their ships sold the seashells they 
had coUected to the curio shop owner. When used on 
ornamental boxes and trinkets, the shells found favor 
in mid-Victorian eyes, and the merchant imported 
thousands upon thousands of shells. 

Later, the sons of Marcus Samuel gave this Far 
Eastern trade a new dimension by shipping the first 
bulk cargo of kerosene through the Suez Canal. They 
gave seashell names to their ships, and when a com- 
pany was formed to engage in the oil business, the 
scallop shell became its trademark. 

Perhaps it was out of sentiment for their father's 
beginnings that Marcus Samuel's sons thought of the 
shell. Yet their choice proved most appropriate for the 
enterprise that was to become the Shell Companies. 

Since antiquity the shell has symbolized the sea, 
the voyage and the quest. Venus, born of the sea, was 
identified with the shell. It was the badge of pilgrims 
to the shrine of the apostle, St. James --and of Cru- 
saders in their quest to the Holy Land. 

In our day, as name and trademark of the Shell 
Companies, the shell continues to be the sign of the 
quest. Shell men search for oil in forests, deserts and 
under the ocean floor. Then the quest goes on in Shell 
laboratories where research people seek new products 
from petroleum. 

Examples: man-made rubber that duplicates tree- 
grown rubber for the first time. New insecticides to aid 
the farmer in his age-old battle against pests. Adhe- 
sives so tough they replace rivets in airplanes. And, 
of course, always finer gasolines and motor oils. 

When you see the Shell sign think of it as the symbol 
of the quest for new ideas, new products and new ways 
to serve you. The Shell Companies: Shell Oil Com- 
pany; Shell Chemical Company; Shell Pipe Line Cor- 
poration; Shell Development Company; Shell Oil 
Company of Canada, Ltd. cshell o.u company i96i 





Figure 1. I. C. I. Building, Melbourne. 
Australia: Bates, Smart and McCut- 
cheon, architects 




Figure 2. Restaurant pavilion, Ida 
(iason Ciallaway Ciardens, Georgia; 
Riciiard Aeck, architect 





Yesterday's Functionalist architecture with its 

rigorous dogma and moral self-righteousness is 

giving way to a neiv and freer kind of monolithic 

design . . . full of surprises and invention. 

TH E men who create the man-made back- 
ground of lile are of three kinds: the 
Haves, the Have-nots, and the Makers— of taste. 
At this time the Have-nots are, as always, creat- 
ing a cheerless carnival atmosphere at every 
opportunity; the Haves are intent on composure 
as usual; and the Makers of taste— always rest- 
lessly exploring some fresh field of design— have 
lately rediscovered an ancient artistic truth 
that puts them in open revolt against both the 

To understand this revolt it is necessary first 
to examine briefly what they are revolting 

Nearly all ordinary design which makes up 
the everyday background of modern life is the 
work of people who rely not on ideas but on 
taste, whether they have it or not. Those who 
have not are engaged now as ever in their 
honorary task of making all they touch bright 
and gay. To do this they now can call on a 
wider range of materials, textures, and pigments 
than have ever before been available to them. 
But their principles and methods are still much 
the same as when they used fretwork and gar- 
goyles. Their object is to keep the eye enter- 
tained, filled to capacity with as many contrasts 
of shape and color as possible. A home is made 
more diverting if the brickwork is relieved by 
panels of stonework, if the paintwork is con- 
trasted by a few walls of bold art wallpaper, if 
the kitchen is custom-striped in multicolored 

tiles, and the hard industrial lines of the equip- 
ment are softened by the popular new lingerie 

Thus the taste Have-nots create their con- 
temporary carnival by constantly dividing things 
up: the artistic entity of the house is first divided 
into a number of individually conceived, unre- 
lated spaces— for instance, a feminine master- 
bedroom, a masculine boy's room, and a neuter 
living-room. Then each space is splintered into 
a number of separate effects: rugged stone fire- 
place contrasted with gleaming metal contrasted 
with flounces of candy stripes. At all costs they 
want to avoid the boring monotony of artistic 
unity. They want as many elements as the eye 
can take in: colors, ornamental surfaces, and 
symbols of good living. 

The social and economic influences at work 
here may be obvious enough, but the artistic 
origins are more oblique. The presently desired 
state of restless richness in contemporary home 
design is largely the illogical conchision of the 
sober, austere, even puritanical, movement in 
design Avhicli might be called the first j^hasc of 
modern architecture. 

This first phase was established about the 
beginning of this century and had the great 
crusading idea of cleaning up the artistic mess 
of Victorian design. This meant two principal 
fights. The first was to free buildings from the 
obligation to follow any preconceived forms, al- 
lowing them to take any practical shajie they 
wished. For instance, the modern architect 
fiercely denounced the idea that a product of 
the machine age could reasonably be shajied like 
Roman baths— as in Pennsylvania Station. The 
second fight was to set free the technological 
advances of the nineteenth century which had 
been suffocating under various theatrical dis- 



guises. For example, the nineteenth century had 
learned to build steel-iramed skyscrapers, but 
convention still demanded that the steel be 
dressed to look like solid masonry— as in the 
Municipal Building, New York, or practically 
any other early skyscraper you can think of 
outside Chicago. 

The most noticeable feature of the earliest 
modern architecture was a moralistic elimina- 
tion of ornament, but there was something else 
equally radical and equally significant: the 
idea of separating the parts. Perhaps the best 
example is to be found in the Baidraus at Dessau, 
the famous pioneer modern building designed 
by Walter Gropius in 1926. In his basic design 
Gropius provided for revolutionary separation 
of the elements composing the school, each of 
which was encouraged to take its own func- 
tional shape. The Bauhaus workshop was a huge 
glass box. The students' studios occuj:)ied a 
multistory, balconied block. The cafeteria was 
long and low. These three clearly, proudly 
separated parts were joined by other minor 
functional elements, and the whole complex was 
arranged into a balanced composition. But it 
still was a complex— an assemblage of deliber- 
ately articulated, deliberately different things, 
each provided with its own separate expression 
and separate entity within the composition. 

The taste Have-nots developed or perverted 
this idea of articidation and separate expression 
of elements, but they coidd not accept the dis- 
cipline of the rest of early modern architectural 
theory. And so today they go even further than 
their grandfathers in their enjoyment of pieces 
and their dislike of wholes. 

The Haves, the men of good taste, on the 
other hand, are very concerned about composi- 
tion. They are not especially interested in the 
theory of giving separate identity to different 
parts. In general they are far more interested in 
the appearance of buildings than in what goes 
on in them or any theory about them. They will 
make different parts look the same if it pleases 
them, and they will break one part up into a 
dozen visual elements if it seems to look better 

Robin Boyd is an Australian architect, a mem- 
ber of the firm of Grounds, Rombere; and Boyd, and 
a lecturer at the University of Melbourne. He was 
Visiting Bcmis Professor of Architecture at MIT 
in 1956-57 and in 1960 was elected Honorary Fel- 
low of the American Institute nl Architects. His 
books include "Victorian Modern" and, most re- 
cently, "The Australian Ugliness." 

that way. All they insist on is having a number 
of contrasted parts— not too many, not too few 
— Av'hich they can then arrange with taste into a 
balanced composition. 

But the third group, the creative designers 
who eventually make taste (if it doesn't break 
them in the meantime), are now looking for 
an answer to the meaning of design which is 
not to be found in the carnival nor in composi- 
tion. They seem to be looking back a long way 
behind the birth of modern architecture and 
the theories of articulation and functional ex- 
pression, back to the birth of classical design 
concepts, to find some elixir of design, of beauty, 
of Platonic perfection of form. 


WH A T is happening among the creative 
architects today oddly recalls what hap- 
pened about 1900 when the idea of functional 
simplicity broke through into practical applica- 
tion and modern architecture officially arrived. 
In 1900 the Functionalist idea was not new; the 
seeds had been sQwn carefully fifty years earlier. 
All that was new was the strict, literal, unbend- 
ing interpretation of the idea. 

Similarly today the one consistent idea which 
seems to be taking shape in the mists of modern 
architectural thought is not a new idea, but a 
new, literal, unbending interpretation of another 
old idea. This is the classical concept of a total 
unification by design. 

Total is the important word here, just as total 
simplicity was the key to the first revolution of 
modern architecture. Serious architects have 
always worked to a theme of sorts and have al- 
ways believed their buildings to be reasonably 
simple. Even the most frenzied of Victorian 
decorators liked to think of their works as 

But it is the degree of simplicity and unity 
that matters. The early modern architects went 
back to the utilitarian tradition of barns and 
bridges in their absolute ban on ornamental 
effects. Now some fifty years later an equally 
drastic and fundamental revision is overtaking 
the popular form of architecture: starting some- 
time about 1955 every new building of self-im- 
portance sought to be a single thing. It was no 
longer content just to be composed, integrated, 
and co-ordinated by a regular "module" (unit 
of measure) or an even rhythm of similar ele- 
ments. It was not content to be a balanced as- 
semblage of parts— like the Bauhaus or the 
United Nations headquarters. It was not con- 


tent to give the suggestion of organic growth- 
like Rockeleller Center. Suddenly every im- 
portant building wanted to have a monolithic 

It would be impossible to put a date on the 
beginning of this monolithic movement. Perhaps 
its first spectacular manifestation was the dome- 
shaped Kresge Auditorium at the Massachusetts 
Institute of Technology, designed by Eero 
Saarinen in 1953, a monolithic concept if ever 
there was one, and in strong contrast to the 
Avandering, if controlled, compositions of 
Saarinen's earlier successes. But long before 
this, Frank Lloyd Wright had published his 
designs for the most monolithic of all his Avorks, 
the Guggenheim Museum, and years before that, 
in 1927, Buckminster Fuller produced his early 
designs for a "Dymaxion" industrialized house, a 
six-sided box hung on a central mast. In fact 
one can quite easily trace isolated origins back 
through Eric Mendlesohn's sketches of plastic 
one-piece structures in the 1914 \s'ar period to 
the beginnings of modern design. But gradually 
in the past five years the monolithic idea has 
become a passion, or a fashion, and the various 
means now used by architects to create the de- 
sired singleness of effect account for most of 
the apparently unrelated personal styles of the 


THERE are two main basically different 
ways to make a monolithic effect. The 
most common method is to use a box. One se- 
lects a likely-looking single container and fits 
into it all the necessary parts of the building, 
like packing a suitcase. As it happens, the most 
common box usually does resemble the propor- 
tions of a businesslike suitcase: the international 
modern glass-box office block (Figure 1). The 
other Avay to look monolithic is to be cellular, 
like a honeycomb, or a bunch of grapes. One 
selects a likely-looking unit of space for the 
building— say, the bedroom-bathroom unit in 
a motel, or the classroom in a school— and one 
makes the whole building a muhi])k' of similar 
cells, with no distractions (Figure 2). This 
technique usually turns out to be more practical 
than the most flexil^le of suitcases, because the 
grape units may be placed anyAvhere that func- 
tion dictates, and the over-all shape of the 
building may spra^vl anywhere that the occupiers 
desire, without the luiitv i)eing destroved. For 
the bunch of grapes is still a single thing no 

l|4IIIIIIIIIMIIIi*ll**i» ifinitimiiliHl 



Figure 3. Theatre, Marina City project, Chicago; 
Bertrand Goldberg Associates, architect 


Figure 4. Spray House #1; John M. Johansen, architect 

Figure 5. Bubble House, Hobc Sound, Florida; Eliot 
Noyes and Associates, architect 


Figure 6. Decorative sunshades, U. S. pavilion. New 
Delhi, India, exhibition; Minoru Yamasaki, architect 


Figure 7. I'. S. Consulate, labnz, Iran; Ethvard 
Lanabee Barnes, architect 


Figure 8. Sarasota High School, Sarasota, Florida; 
Paul Rudolph, architect 

matter how ungeometrkally and disorderly it 

Each of these two principal means of acliieving 
a tight, intense tniity in the building has many 
possible variations. The suitcase may be pur- 
pose-shaped in the way of a violin case, hinting at 
the things it contains, like the theatre in the 
Marina City project in Chicago (Figure 3), or 
it may dissolve into quite a loose, flexible thing 
like a plastic bag full of mixed fruit, as John 
M. Johansen has demonstrated in his sug- 
gestion for a hypothetical house of free-formed 
concrete shells (Figure 4). Modern engineering 
is continuously enlarging the range of economical 
and practical container shapes. Concrete sprayed 
on an inflated balloon makes a practical sack 
to cover a small house in Florida (Figure 5), and 
a membrane of metal woven like fabric and 
propped up at one end makes a sort of giant car- 
pet bag to cover a music bowl in Melbourne. 

Sometimes the container bears little relation 
to the contents and is in fact deliberately ir- 
relevant and disguising, like the gift-wrapping 
style of the concrete grilles used by some archi- 
tects. And sometimes the container may take 
a proudly exotic shape, symbolic or evocative of 
some aspect of the building's purpose, like a 
rather cheap perftmie bottle or, regrettably, a 
number of recent churches. And sometimes, when 
one suitcase cannot practically hold all the re- 
quired elements of the btiilding, the architect 
resorts to using a few extra, smaller containers, 
but he makes each of them a miniature of the 
dominating one. matching in shape and ma- 
terials. He thus achieves the unity of a porter's 
trolleyful of matched luggage, or, if you prefer, 
a family of mother duck and ducklings. But 
whatever strange shape the container takes, or 
whatever combined form— matched luggage, a 
family, a bunch of grapes— the important thing is 
that the noini is singular: a number of things has 
been made into a singular thing. 

The individtial grape in the bunch may also be 
exotic fruit, as in the purely decorative and 
frivolous U. S. pavilion at the \Vorld Agricultural 
Fair in New Delhi, where Minoru Yamasaki 
used a golden Fiberglas Eastern dome as a 
sunshading grape. He could have added as 
many domes as required by the exhibition 
authorities without embarrassment to the bunch 
(Figure 6). Or the grape may be slightly less 
exotic and more functional as in the U. S. Con- 
sulate at Tabriz, Iran (Figure 7), or not exotic 
at all and convincingly practical, as in the folded 
concrete units of Paul Rudolph's Sarasota High 
School (Figure 8) in Florida. 


Again, the grape may be used as a practical 
solution to the industrialization of house build- 
ing, for a house might be mass-produced like a 
car if it could be broken do^\n into a number 
of standardized units of space enclosure each 
about the size of a car, as proposed by George 
Nelson and Gordon Chadwick. 


THERE are of course other variations of 
these two main techniques. Twins are 
popular. A few years ago, if an architect had 
found it necessary to build two similar buildings 
—say, apartment blocks— beside each other, he 
would have gone out of his way to avoid what 
was considered one of the worst design faux pas: 
duality. Probably he would have made one of 
the buildings tall and thin, the other short and 
fat; he would have composed them as two 
things, leading your eye gently from the squat to 
the tall one. Now, as proposed in Bertrand 
Goldberg's twin sixty-story apartment cylinders 
at the Marina City development in Chicago 
(Figure 9), the architect makes the two things 
identical so that they are in effect one thing: 
a pair. 

The archetype of modern twins was perhaps 
the Mies van der Rohe apartments of 1956 on 
Lake Shore Drive, Chicago. But then in a 
sense the whole monolithic movement A\as begun 
by Mies. For it ^\as he A\ho reversed the slogan 
of early modern architecture: "Form follo^vs 
function.' The architect's duty in the techno- 
logical age, said Mies, is to build perfect struc- 
ture and form. Then function ^vill fit it. Mies 
spends his creative life perfecting the technology 
and character of the glass suitcase building as a 
kind of nonemotional abstract poetry. But mean- 
^\•hile his reversal of the old Functionalist prin- 
ciple had set others off, freed of inhibitions, on 
a delightful search for beautiful form. And in 
seemingly no time many architects in many parts 
of the Avorld came back from the search tri- 
umphantly carrying a circle. 

It is no coincidence, and no simple fashion, 
that the circle no^v is almost as common a shape 
in creative architecture as the rectansrle ^\'as a 
few years ago. The circle is translated into the 
three dimensions of a usable building in a 
dozen ways. It becomes a cone, or a drum, or— 
most frequently— a ring, as in a fairly classic 
and symbolic example: the fallout-proof school 
designed by Albert Sigal, Jr. for the California 
Council of the American Institute of Architects' 
Committee on Nuclear Energy (Figure 10). 


Figure 9 (above) . Apartment blocks, Marina Citv 
project. Chicago: Bertxand Goldberg .Associates, 
architect. Figure 10 (below). Fallout-proof school, 
Albert E. Sigal Jr., designer 



Figure 11 (above). Skyscraper, Detroit; Minoru Yama- 
saki, architect. Figure 12 (below). Proposed Hori/on 
City; Lucio Closta, planner 


The emergence ot the circle Irom the rec- 
tilinear background oi modern architecture is 
not really sinprising. This new monolithism h 
a reaction against early modern architecture's 
often overintense worship of the machine and 
the right angle. This is a more scholarly, sen- 
tentious, classical approach, frankly open to 
inspiration from the past. 

One of the first moves was to compress the 
ubiquitous rectangle into the tighter geometrical 
shape of the square— hence the number of new 
tower buildings that are exactly square in plan, 
like Yamasaki's Michigan Consolidated Gas 
building in Detroit (Figure 11). But a circle is 
far better still. The circle is the most self-con- 
tained, precise, concise shape, recurring at in- 
tervals throughout history in the plan of special 
public buildings from Stonehenge on. Turned 
into three-dimensional form, as in a dome, the 
circle suggests the arch of the heavens, the sphere, 
the divine form of a drop of water, or the earth, 
or the universe. 

The mystical connotations here are not ir- 
relevant. Partial responsibility for the present 
rash of circles must be accepted by Professor 
Rudolf Wittkower, whose learned treatise on 
the mystical influence, during the Renaissance, 
of Pythagorean and Vitruvian theories of form. 
Architectural Principles in the Age of Human- 
ism, has been required reading in most archi- 
tectural schools for a decade or so. The ancients 
saw cosmic significance in involved mathematical 
analogies between music, geometry, and the 
human body. They would have delighted in 
the form of hundreds of new variations on the 
circle and the dome which are now appearing 
every day: for instance, the Civil War Centen- 
nial Dome in Virginia; or a dozen projects 
for dome-homes; or the two complementary 
buildings for Brasilia's houses of parliament by 
Oscar Niemeyer— one a conventional dome, the 
other a matching upside-down bowl. 



BESIDES, mystiques apart, the circle and 
the dome are economically justifiable. They 
are nature's way of enclosing the most within the 
least surface. ^Vorking without a trace of mys- 
ticism and strictly within rational engineering 
principles, the Italian architect-engineer Pier 
Luigi Nervi frequently produces a circular plan 
and a domed form for his intricate ventures in 
concrete, seen at their best in the Rome Olympic 
Games stadia. 



Scale affects all architectural thinking, old 
as well as new. If, for instance, you asked an 
architect of the early high Functionalist era 
to create for you a model community, he 
would design separately the commercial, indus- 
trial, cultural, religious, and domestic areas of 
the town, and give all these separate architectural 
expressions on his drawing board. But he would 
probably be content to leave each separate house 
as a simple block. However, when you asked 
him to detail a house, he would design as sepa- 
rate boxes the living, sleeping, and service areas 
and the garden shed. Finally, when he concen- 
trated on the shed, he woidd design separately 
the places for the hand tools and the heavier 
equipment, giving them different expression, and 
"would probably provide a circular place for 
rolling the hose. By this illustration I mean to 
suggest that the idea of separating different 
functional parts was essentially not a practical 
scheme so much as an artistic idea which could 
be expanded or contracted in interpretation to 
suit the will or whim of the working architect. 

In a similar way, but in reverse, scale affects 
the artistic idea of monolithism. Certainly it is 
not hard for anyone to imagine a monolithic 
concept for a single building which is to function 
simply as a small shrine— although few would 
turn the suitcase into such a glamorous evening 
bag as Philip Johnson has made the Rappites' 
memorial in Nc^\■ Harmony, Indiana (Figure 

But as the movement develops and designers 
keep tightening up their architectural themes, 
it is seen that more and more complex functions 
can be packed into bigger and bigger suitcases. 
The circle stretches to take in a ^vhole jet airport, 
as proposed for Kansas City (Figure 13), or a 
college building for six thousand students, as in 
Raleigh, North Carolina, or a whole city as in 
the Horizon City project proposed for Texas by 
the Brazilian planner Lucio Costa (Figure 12). 
It is clear, however, that even the biggest suit- 
cases or grape-bunches have their practical 
limitations— illustrated in the ragged edges of 
the proposed Horizon City scheme (which is now 
in the planning stage). Only in a dictatorship 
or a classical Utopia would you expect everybody 
to conform uncomplainingly to some allotted 
compartment in a cosmic dream. 

The suitcase and grape-bunch, however, are 
not all the new movement has to offer. There 
are other methods of drawing an effect of 
singleness out of complexity. One of them 
which grew up alongside the suitcase and grape- 
bunch is on the face of it entirely opposed to 

Figure 13 (above). Proposed jet airport, Kansas City; 
Cooper-Robinson-Carlson-O'Brien, architects. Figure 
14 (below). Memorial to the Rappites, New Harmony, 
Indiana; Philip Johnson, architect 





Figure 15. La Tourette, Dominican monastery, France; Le Corbusier, architect 

them. It is seen at its best in the latest building 
of one of this century's greatest taste-makers: 
La Tourette, a Dominican monastery in France 
by Le Corbusier (Figure 15). At first glance, 
it has the faint suggestion of a suitcase, like 
most Le Corbusier works, in the over-all recti- 
linear form. But it is certainly not a case you'd 
be proud to claim in the baggage room; it seems 
to have been deliberately broken into bits. For 
Le Corbusier is not attemjDting to make a single 
thing in the direct visual sense. But in a poetic, 
harmonic, and rather excitedly mystical way he 
is harking back to ancient dogmas of proportion 
and rhythm. The whole of La Tourette is 
designed on the "Modulor" scale, Le Corbusier's 
own measuring device, which is based on the 
ancient mathematical proportion known as the 
"Golden Section." The Avhole of the three-story 
window-wall which looks down the valley is 
designed in the proportions of a musical com- 
position by a musician-engineer colleague of Le 
Corbusier named Xenakis. The process used 
is called "Metastasis" by Le Corbusier, who en- 
joys nothing better than a quadrisyllable. 
Metastasis is a jirocess of transformation and Le 
Corbusier no doubt sees this wall transformed 
from a number of sticks and sheets of glass into 
a fused harmony: One thing. 

A similar ]jrocess applied to a more work- 
aday building and stripjjed of much of Le 
Corbusier's poetry and all of his mysticism, is 

seen at work in the Alfred Newton Richan 
Medical Research Building at the Universii; 
of Pennsylvania (Figure 16). Its architect, Lou 
I. Kahn, made no attempt at a suitcase. Nor di 
he homogenize all the elements in some sort ( 
architectural blender. Instead he divided th 
bigger elements such as the laboratory areas int 
convenient functional sizes. This way they wei 
more in scale with small elements such as th 
stair towers and the ventilation and plumbin 
ducts, which he felt compelled to expose t 
public view. Finally, he achieved not a con 
posed blend so much as a mixture like a frui! 
salad in which everything of relevance to th 
job in hand— but nothing more— could still b' 
seen fragmented, naked, and identifiable, \\h\\ 
no separate thing dominated and all wer 
subordinated to the total thing. Because thi 
approach offers more freedom and flexibilit) 
perhaps it also offers the most immediate hopi 
to the future of the monolithic movement. Bu 
still it is an intensely intellectual aj^proach an( 
as such it lacks the essence of all the mon 
exciting suitcase conceptions since the Tower o 
Babel: the visionar)' Cjuality. 


N A pure case of monolith ism the exact 
solution to the building jiroblcm is discovered, 
not by any kind of engineer or social scientist, 




not even by a clever designer, but by an inspired 
dreamer, instantaneously, in a flash when the 
clouds part and all beauty is revealed to him. 
That is the nature of a grand monolithic con- 
cept; or, rather, that is the desired effect. And 
a vision is characteristically a single complete 
thing, not a lot of things beautifidly composed, 
nor a single thing intellectually analyzed. The 
architectural translation of such a vision also will 
have the power of instantaneous communication, 
and if the message received in a flash does indeed 
appear to be highly appropriate for the human 
problem of shelter untler consideration, then it 
can be judged that the suitcase is likely to be 
good architecture. The problem of the visionary 
architect, however, is not to seek visions, which 
are easy enough to cultivate, but to train him- 
self to dismiss irrelevant visions. 

It is important for the monolithic movement 
to have hope— to look ahead and not over its 
shoulder, to remain on the upgrade. For the 
indisputable, definable object of all design is 
co-ordination: the drawing together of many 

related parts into an apparent wholeness, a 
singleness of purpose. It is only right and 
proper and historically correct that a building 
should have a recognizable idea riuining all 
through it. And it is exciting and stimulating 
when the idea is so vivid that it makes an 
immediate, imperative image. 

But the key question in judgment remains: 
Is the strong, vital image the right one for 
the task in hand? Is it fimctionally and struc- 
turally logical? Perhaps only those in the know 
—the professionals— can answer this; but there 
is another question anyone can apply to all these 
buildings. Are they emotionally satisfying in 
ways that seem appropriate to the occupants 
and their duties and their sense of delight? For 
architecture is still nothing if not a usefid art 
and, very literally, a living art— for li\'ing, that 
is, in 1961— and if the image created is not in 
accord realistically with the fragment of life 
being sheltered, architecture might as well give 
over the design of its facades and foyers to 
Madison Avenue and be done Avith it. 


Figure 16. Medical Research Building, University of Pennsylvania; Louis I. Kahn, architect 

Harper's Magazine, July 1961 




Its brightest faculty members call it "a damn 
sick institution." But a TC degree is still a passport 
to promotion in most school systems. 

Miriam Borgenicht has written many magazine 
articles and three suspense novels and uill start 
teaching English at \ew Rochelle High School this 
fall. She is the wife of a Neiv York attorney, Milton 
Klein, and the mother of five children. A Barnard 
graduate, she enrolled at TC in February 1960, 
acquired fifteen points toward a master's degree and 
some unexpected light on teacher training. This 
article is the result. 

MOST empires, as history readers know, 
have a way of putting up a strong front 
for a considerable time after decay has begun. 
This truism conveniently fits the empire called 
Teachers College, which presides from its bastion 
on the Columbia University campus in New York 
City over more sectors of education than some 
observers consider quite seemly. 

The appearance of strength is in every way im- 
pressive. A quarter of the superintendents who 

run America's big-city school systems received 
graduate training at Teachers College, which is 
knoAvn to the trade as TC. Cinrently it is school- 
ing their successors, plus plenty of the teachers 
and principals who will work under them. Every 
autumn six thousand students wait in line at the 
registrar's office. Of these more than \.\\o hun- 
dred—far more than at any other school of 
education— collect the footnotes and unassailable 
generalities that compose a doctorate of educa- 
tion thesis, thenceforth to sign themselves Ed.D. 
In TC classrooms 150 professors draw blackboard 
diagrams for courses like "Intergroup Develop- 
ment and Organization" and "Education as 
Facilitation of Change." .\nd an immeasurable 
pile of dociunents goes out across the country, 
carrying the Avord that is first discussed at in- 
ordinate length in a conference room above 
Russell Library. 

This power structure, indeed, appears menac- 
ing as well as unseemly to some critics. They 
blame it for every woe of American parents, from 
their sixth-grader's ignorance about the rivers of 


South America to the rule which keeps their 
charming French-born neighbor from teaching 
French in the local high school. 

In fact, however, both the complaints and the 
aura of power are relics of philosophies that were 
advanced, and attacked, and sometimes even 
abandoned thirty or forty years ago, and what 
might be more justly criticized is the failure to 
produce new concepts in the past twenty years. 
The six thousand students now at TC are more 
likely to acquire a vague sympathy for the whole 
child than a curriculum that will interest a 
whole classroom. To anyone who has taken one 
education course, the ground covered in another 
Ed course looks all too familiar. And the articles 
by and about TC in educational journals usually 
sound defensive because someone has to answer 
the critics, and no one but the educators seems 
to volunteer for the job. 

To tune in properly on the thin voice of 
Teachers College today one must remember the 
aggressive chorus of its lustier years. The simple 
business of getting started was no mean feat. 
From 1887, when its doors opened to fewer than 
a hundred students, it grew steadily for over a 
generation. Under the firm ride of Dean James 
Russell, it also sold— to the nation and the world 
—the idea that teachers ought to know something. 
Subsequently, state bureaucracies may have be- 
come somewhat inflexibly attached to compulsory 
education courses. However, when even the 
stanchest TC hater looks at the alternatives— at 
such wayward phenomena as the recommenda- 
tions of school boards, pupils, or other teachers 
—he concedes that academic training of some 
kind is the most reasonable basis for hiring or 
promoting teachers. No one, it appears, really 
wants teachers traveling light; intellectual bag- 
gage is very much in order. 


FO R many years Teachers College provided 
much of this baggage in the form of ideas 
that, for easy inspection, may be stacked under 
D for Dewey. Around 1915 these ideas had con- 
siderable carrying power; and American schools 
still feel the impact of Dewey's philosophy (em- 
phasis on education as active instead of passive, 
and on learning as experimentation instead of 
imitation) and of Thorndike's psychology (large- 
scale achievement and intelligence testing). 

TC spoke with many voices in those days. Pro- 
fessor Kilpatrick, in one classroom, might argue 
that learning should involve purposeful activity 
and should begin with a problem that created 

interest and cle\cl()ped iniiiati\e. His colleague, 
Professor Kandel, might tleclare. on the contrary, 
that the schools should jMcpaie students foi' adult 
responsibilities through formal training in read- 
ing, arithmetic, and the like. After a tortuous 
journe) through committees, this debate emerged 
as the question of whether fourth-graders should 
work on midtiplication or on a mural aliout the 
Iroquois; and although, in the 'twenties, a 
majority of the TC faculty would have ra\ored 
the mural, on this question, as on the problem 
of teacher certification, TC long ago ceased be- 
ing the sole arbiter. Nonetheless it chc^\■ed over 
the old ideas in a ^vay which did tliem little 
good; school boards, for instance, that had fol- 
lowed TC's advice to invest in movable desks 
were likely to lose their enthusiasm when the 
same source was still making vigorous attacks on 
stationary ones five years later. The progressive- 
education movement was finished off l)y AV^orld 
War II conservatism, by the rise in social agen- 
cies to take over functions that progressives had 
wanted in the schools, and by the push to get 
into college. When parents start worrying about 
College Boards ^viiile their children are in grade 
school, an hour \vith maps takes priority over a 
"creative" visit to the local fire house. 

The TC chorus also carried far during the 
'thirties when concern about the social order 
accompanied and sometimes superseded concern 
about the child it might raise. From the hilltops 
of progressive education, vistas of progressive 
politics looked agreeable and were duly charted. 
In 19.S4 a ne^v course called Education 200F put 
compulsory doses of sociology, economics, and 
political science into every apprentice teacher's 
notebook. There are many variations of 200F 
today, and if its content is not entirely new to 
some students, they may find solace in the fact 
that their predecessors broke new ground. 

TC's serenade to the new social order, however, 
^vas far from harmonious. "Where did teachers 
stand in the class struggle? Was George Counts 
correct in saying tliat teachers should formulate 
goals for society? \Vhy a Teachers Union? Was 
Dean William Russell (son of James) throwing 
his considerable weight against left-\\'ingers? Had 
Kilpatrick been fired for progressive leanings or 
was he due for retirement anyhow? Were Com- 
munists taking over the place? \\'ere reaction- 
aries taking over the place? Questions like these 
shook facult) meetings (as the\ shook mosi meet- 
ings in the 'thirties), made fi iends and enemies 
across the country, and earned for TC— Irom a 
Nar ]'())/< Times rejiorter- a title which it still 
clierislies: one big luihappy family. 




Toilay, no one would be likely to use the same 
sobriquet. The heated old debates have been re- 
placed by a vague malaise. "We're a damn sick 
institution," said a young professor recently. 
"Ten more years like this and we'll be out of 
business," warned a colleague down the hall, 
without bothering to lower his voice or close the 
door; self-censure does not rate as treason. But 
the bright aiul generally young men who hold 
such views are a small minority of the faculty and 
(hey aic up against its backbone: the masters of 
education jargon, the men who shot their bolt 
for causes in the 'thirties, the assistants who took 
over from the Countses and Kilpatricks and 
carved no new niches for themselves. Harping 
on the theme of individual personality, they 
demonstrate that what is radical for one age can 
turn sodden in another. But they have the 
strength of numbers. 

The TC administration under President Hollis 
L. Caswell is still playing the old games like de- 
partment reorganization and purpose reappraisal, 
and soon it may be too late to do anything else. 
Ten years ago, TC could bear the brunt of any- 
one's grii)es against the public schools with 
stolidity and even relish; perhaps it was indeed 
responsible for the slow readers and the bum 
sj)ellers, since for over a generation it had sup- 
plied a sizable share of the nation's teachers and 
curriculums. Today there is competition even 
for blame. Training for teachers is now oflered 
at twelve hundred assorted universities, liberal- 
arts colleges, normal schools, and teachers' col- 
leges. The cozy rationale for TC's existence, in 
short, is disappearing along with the daring ideas. 
"We either move on or move out," said a yoimg 
professor the other day. But the only discernible 
movement at TC is toward the realignment of 
courses in education. 


WH E R E in fact should Teachers College 
move? Where should it move to solve 
the main problem today: how to lure bright peo- 
ple into teaching? A professional school can 
handle a shortage in two opposite ways. One 
method is to make the preparation appear so 
accessible and undemanding that anyone may 
take a stab at it. The other way is to invest it 
with such qualifications and difficulties and, con- 
sequently, glamour that only the superior will 
feel eligible. TC adopted the first method thirty 
years ago; with few modifications it still prevails. 
How does it work? Let us take a look at a 
promising young college graduate named John 

who, after a year in his father's ladoiy, dec ides 
that he wants to become a high-school English 
teacher. He enrolls at TC and finds plenty to 
choose from. He can, for example, lake hi> j)ick 
among Psychology of Early .\dolescence. Psy- 
chology of Late Adolescence, Psychology of the 
Adult, Psychology of Adjustment, Psychology of 
Communication, Psychology of Personalily. Psy- 
chology of School Learniiig, Psychology of 
Family Relations, and some InuKhed other psy- 
chologies. But amid the diversity is a certain 
rigidity. For instance, a course grandly called 
"Communication and the Comnumication Arts 
in the Modern Community" is a ie(juisitc for his 
master's. This sounds like material John had 
studied in college so he asks if lie may take a test 
to exempt him (a not uncommon jiractice in 
many schools). The answer is "no" because "the 
human relationships involved in a course are as 
vital as the subject matter." 

Various other trials are in store. John finds 
that almost every class accommodates a widely 
disparate group: the physical ed major from a 
Southern school and the Ivy-League graduate, 
the nurse on scholarship from her hospital and 
the experienced teacher out for advancement, the 
housewife back after fifteen years of reading re- 
cipes, and the foreign student whose mastery of 
English is not quite up to his spirit. Generally 
the pace is geared to the slow student: one book 
—and a digest at that— may be a whole semester's 
reading requirement. 

After a while, John gets used to the effortless 
stroke which enables him to swim along with 
A's and B's. He is puzzled, however, by an ex- 
periment on page 100 of his psychology textbook. 
It shows that when restaurant waitresses arc con- 
fronted with desserts in two rows, they reach on 
tiptoe for those in back; the implication is that 
people go after what is hard to get. But at TC, 
he finds, the treats are within easy reach of all. 
John hears much talk about areas of reference, 
societal values, and the purpose of education. 
The question, "what is education?", is good for 
forty minutes at the start of any course; so is 
something known as "constructive discussion of 
significant issues." 

In his second term John starts student teach- 
ing. Under TC's loose system (which is com- 
mon to many schools of education) this means 
that he observes real classes in a nearby school 
for several months, and is in charge of them for 
perhaps an equal time. An accomjxmying 
seminar at TC is supposed to clarify his ojiinions 
and answer his questions. 

John's high-school pupils are studying The 



Scarlet Letter. He would like help on the follow- 
ing: What sort of analysis of the Puritan mind 
should properly precede a reading of the book? 
How much information about Hawthorne's life 
should be expected? How does Hawthorne's 
sense of sin compare with our modern sense, and 
to what extent is this an appropriate topic for a 
bright eleventh grade? What analogous book 
would be preferable for a class of more limited 
ability? However, a fruitful discussion of these 
problems would assume a knowledge of Haw- 
thorne, of the Puritan mind, of Salem, and of 
eleventh-grade reading lists; it would also ex- 
clude those without this knowledge. But exclu- 
sion is not the liberal— that is to say, the TC— 
way. Instead of learning about high-school cur- 
riculums, John finds in a typical seminar that he 
must ponder something called a "sociagram," 
which is a diagram showing how students in a 
hypothetical high-school class relate to each 
other. Susan (as shown by arrows) is not well 
liked by either the large groups dominated by 
Ellen and Burt or the small one led by Mary. 
To scrutinize this, of course, requires nothing 
but a general empathy. One seminar student 
identifies with Bint; another contributes a 
poignant speculation about Mary. No one men- 
tions the fact that, in most high schools, deans 
or guidance experts— for better or worse— now do 
the counseling, or that, indeed, a teacher who in- 
terfered in the social life of sixteen-year-olds 
would be a dead duck. A spirit of good will 
pervades the seminar. Everyone has an opinion 
about whether Susan's rejected state may inter- 
fere with her performance on tests. More arrows 
are drawn to delineate high-school cliques; the 
student teachers obediently copy these into note- 
books. John, meanwhile, finds himself thinking 
that perhaps he wants to run the family nut-and- 
bolt factory after all. 


WOULD John have found the same limp 
procedures at all schools of education? 
Generally, yes. In an attempt to change matters, 
the Ford Foundation two years ago gave a lordly 
$15,478,000 to nineteen graduate teacher-training 
schools: S2,800,000 went to Harvard; $2,400,000 
to the University of Chicago; $800,000 to Cornell; 
$1,047,000 to Brown; $900,000 to Stanford; and 
$600,000 to George Peabody College in Ten- 
nessee. These are very different institutions, but 
they are in accord on one major point: that for 
the potential teacher, the best soft sell may well 
be a year of hard grind. 

To accomplish this, they have, first, tightened 
admission standards; as a result, many of them 
now have more applicants than they can handle 
for the M.A. in teaching. Second, they have es- 
tablished close ties with nearby school systems. 
In Los Angeles, for instance, the city schools help 
screen candidates for the University of Southern 
California School of Education and agree to hire 
them after training. There is similar rapport at 
Central Michigan University, Bucknell, and 

Pay has also been used as a lure for student 
teachers, who are sometimes called interns. It 
varies from $1,750 paid to Harvard students by 
Newton and Lexington public schools, to $1,275 
(one-semester substitute's pay) for a few trainees 
at George Peabody. University of Chicago in- 
terns are paid in proportion to the amount of 
teaching they do. At Stanford the classroom 
teacher who supervises the interns pockets an 
extra check. Diverse as they arc, these devices 
all add to the attractiveness of teacher training 
and help make it a real rather than a textbook 

As a natural corollary, lots of the education 
textbooks have bitten the dust. Stanford cut its 
methods course requirement from forty-two 
points to thirty-four. At Harvard's School of 
Education, students are taking more than ten 
times as many courses in the college faculty of 
arts and sciences as they did in the early 'fifties. 
In fact, according to Dean Kcppel, practically 
all courses are now in subject matter rather than 
in methods. A decent respect has thus been 
fostered between the university and the school 
of education; liberal-arts professors look a lot 
more tolerantly on the education student once 
they are able to put him through their own de- 
manding paces. 

At Teachers College, however, such promising 
innovations have made few inroads. Admissions 
policy was mildly modified last spring, wlien a 
"B" average in college was made an entrance 
requirement. But differences in colleges and 
loopholes for "prior field experience" still allow 
great latitude. Though Teachers College Dean 
John Fischer (a former Baltimore School Super- 
intendent who was appointed last year) com- 
mends tight standards, he also takes shelter under 
the TC tradition of never turning away anyone 
who wants help. Isn't it a fact, he asks, that for 
teaching certain groups, the fellow who just 
squeaked through a small Arkansas college may 
be just as good a bet as a cum laitde from Am- 
herst? Tempering any inclination to put up 
barriers is the perverse fact that TC enrollment 



has declined anyhow -from 8,483 in 1959 to 7,829 
in 1960, for the combined spring and winter ses- 
sions. (Summer sessions add another few thou- 
sand.) Dr. Fischer hopefully ascribes this slump 
to the low birth rate in the 'thirties, but other 
schools are not so afflicted. 

Thus one is led to suspect that a liberal ad- 
missions policy may be dictated less by ideology 
than by poverty. This is an old story at TC 
though it is seldom told; an institution with 
empty coffers, like a girl with an empty date 
book, suffers from unpopidarity. TC's finances 
are complicated by all manner of special grants 
and funds for assorted research and publication 
projects. However, tuition fees supply at least 
three-quarters of the "instructional" budget and 
in consequence almost anyone with a tuition 
check in hand is welcome. Those who would like 
TC to become the Harvard of education must 
reckon with the fact that it lacks Harvard's 
financial cushion. Nor is its own hard seat at the 
bargaining table likely to be eased. Though 
some endowment money trickles in, notably from 
the Carnegie and the Kellogg foundations, grants 
are usually earmarked for special purposes such 
as teacher education in Africa. This spring, to 
be sure, Procter and Gamble gave $15,000 with- 
out attached strings, but this rare kind of unre- 
stricted largess is hardly enough to buy acous- 
tical tile for a couple of reconditioned classrooms. 
The big money the Ford Foundation gave to 
nineteen colleges was for a major shake-up in 
their programs; it is well known that no real 
shake-up will get past the main desk at TC. 

Short of money, TC is also hobbled by lack of 
a link with the New York City public schools or 
any others. This was not always the case. Over 
the years, TC has had five affiliated demonstra- 
tion schools. The most noteworthy was Lincoln, 
which merged with Horace Mann in 1940 and 
was closed nine years later because it was felt to 
have outlived its usefulness. Lincoln, in fact, 
was demonstrating that progressive methods ap- 
plied by first-rate teachers to the selected children 
of privileged families turn out a superior prod- 
uct, to no one's surprise. However, there grew 
to be less and less connection between what went 
on at Lincoln, where a "slow learner" might 
have an IQ of 110, and most of the school sys- 
tems (Denver or Kansas City, for example) that 
tried to benefit from it. The decision to close 
Lincoln was denounced angrily, in and out of the 
courts, by parents and onlookers. But by and 
large they missed the point: the disaster was not 
that Lincoln folded but that nothing replaced it. 
TC today has no campus school where a pro- 

fessor may take his students, or his ideas, or even 
himself. No channels— like those in Cambridge 
or California— have been opened up to neighbor- 
ing classrooms. Communication is a big word in 
the catalogue, but TC has no working variety of 
it with school superintendents and principals in 
its own back yard. 

Though Dean Fischer urges teachers to under- 
stand "the great diversity of pupils across the 
country," TC courses offer few glimpses of the 
Harlem public schools five blocks away. This 
remoteness led a Brooklyn teacher to comment 
sardonically on a lecture on visual aids. "I'd just 
like to see that professor in my class," she said. 
"The boys are squirting ink. The girls are busy 
with the old make-up. And someone's using the 
kind of words you don't find in the manuals. 
What would he do about it?" 

To be sure, not all the professors are happy at 
their alienated blackboards. "If we want to blaze 
new trails we should be working with the Puerto 
Rican children," says Professor Lawrence Cremin, 
who heads the Social and Philosophical Founda- 
tions Department. "These children sit at a third 
of the desks in New York City schools. Their 
language and behavior problems would give us 
plenty to hack our way through." Professor 
James McClellan, who teaches philosophy with a 
Texas accent, is equally driven toward public- 
school teaching. "I despise it, I hate it, but I 
ought to be doing it. I need someone to give me 
a push." Acting without the push is Professor 
George Bereday, who teaches social studies once 
a week in a nearby suburban junior high school. 


BY A N D large, however, TC puts its main 
trust in the methods course. This category 
ranges, roughly, from Philosophical Foundations, 
which may consider Rousseau, Locke, or Dewey, 
or Psychological Foundations, which examines 
theories of learning, to the methods course 
proper, which tells how to set up a high-school 
physics experiment. "Philosophic" and "psy- 
chological" courses are often criticized as being 
on a rather simple undergraduate level. But it 
is the practical methods course that Jacques 
Barzun had in mind when he said that its total 
substance "could be given in fifteen minutes of 
casual conversation between an older man and a 
younger, both interested in the same subject." 

Common to all the methods courses is the 
stupefaction engendered by familiarity. Anyone 
who has taken Psychology of Adjustment may 
well have easy sailing in Psychology of the Adult. 


Two courses which deal with methods of teach- 
ing folk songs may be even less strenuous. Mean- 
while the arguments go on, as the educators 
grope, like Pythagoras, for a formula that will 
solve everything. Should the curriculum be 40 
per cent method, 60 per cent subject? ("Subject" 
is a course, usually at Columbia, in which one 
pursues his special academic interest or field of 
subject matter.) How about 65/45? Suppose 
method is only 30 per cent? But a drastic cut in 
methods courses would be a blow to professors 
who are not equipped to teach anything else, 
and on this front they maintain an understand- 
ably stern vigil. Though Dean Fischer deplores 
courses which "needlessly duplicate each other," 
he simultaneously reminds students how lucky 
they are to have such a wide choice. The hun- 
dreds of methods courses, it would appear, are 
in the catalogue to stay. 

Nor does TC's odd alliance with Columbia 
seem headed for any great change. Back in 1915, 
some people— notably President Nicholas Murray 
Butler— wanted TC merged with Columbia. 
Others thought it should be disassociated com- 
pletely. Still others— led by Dean James Russell 
—favored a "sovereign state" within the Univer- 
sity. Since Russell won, TC is on its own 
financially; students pay tuition by the point 
system and TC pockets the fees from its own 

In contrast to this straightforward fiscal rela- 
tionship is the uneasy intellectual one. The late 
Irwin Edman expressed the extreme position 
when he called TC the place where imitation 
pearls are cast before real swine. Today his 
successors are less vitriolic and though many 
share Barzun's views, there are signs of a milder 
climate. This year, for instance, Professors 
Bereday, Cremin, Hu, Hunt, Kershner, Kimball, 
Watson, and Wayland are cross-listed in the 
University catalogue, a sign that other graduate 
schools consider their courses meaty enough to 
give credit for them. But such hands-across-the- 
street gestures are rare. From Columbia, the 
120th Street landscape still seems dominated by 
duplicative courses of meager content. And no 
TC inhabitant inspires less respect at the Uni- 
versity than the Ed.D. candidate. Although TC 
administrators talk bravely about the Ed.D. as 
"the best hope for new ideas and serious re- 
search," many dissertations remain on the level 
of "The Care and Location of the Pencil Sharp- 
ener." The demand for the Ed.D., of course, 
continues high. Teachers need degrees to be- 
come principals or, later, superintendents. 
School boards feel that Ed.D.s on the faculty 

prove something important. Taxpayers find in 
them a reason to vote for bond issues. But uni- 
versity faculties are less impressed. The Ed.D. 
may not seem to them like much of an academic 
trophy until it entails an obstacle course at least 
as tough as the one they set up for a Ph.D. This 
is not likely to happen soon. President Caswell 
keeps on promising "re-examination of the doc- 
toral program" in nearly every TC report. But 
there is no real commitment to change anything. 

Commitments, indeed, are in short order. The 
frank admission followed by the discreet with- 
drawal is the habitual stance. "It is quite pos- 
sible," Dean Fischer said recently, "that we shall 
have to distinguish between that part of our 
effort which involves service to all who need our 
help and the other part which has to do with 
preparing the most qualified leaders for the most 
responsible posts in education." He adds, how- 
ever, that TC cannot be expected to sort out its 
sprawling student body as many smaller schools 
have done. The excuse is unconvincing; to those 
who scan TC's list of courses in techniques of 
testing, it seems ironic that some of these can't 
be applied at home. 

Perhaps it is even tragic. For all the gripes 
against it, TC has also earned respect and grati- 
tude. Over a long period it backed up almost 
anyone taking a bold stand in education. The 
educators who wanted pictures in the classrooms, 
or who tried to find the disturbed child early, or 
who inquired why children learned at different 
speeds, or who thought math teachers should 
comprehend the League of Nations, or who said 
youngsters learned more if they were happy, or 
who hired a school psychologist— all these in- 
novators in their day could count on reinforce- 
ments from TC. 

But the frontier has shifted, and despite the 
many different ideas about how to run schools 
and pay for them, everyone is agreed that today's 
crisis concerns our desperate need for superior 
teachers. Everyone is also worried by the dour 
corollary— that teachers come from the bottom of 
the academic heap. Faced with this deadlock, 
TC— long the nation's main training ground 
for teachers— offers no inducements compelling 
enough to attract the bright graduates of Colum- 
bia or any other college. Unwilling or unpre- 
pared to cut its losses, TC still deals out bland 
liberality that was good enough twenty and fifty 
years ago. The loss is a national one. American 
education today needs plenty of powerhouses, 
and it is good news to no one when the oldest 
and most dependable of these no longer seems 
able to get up steam. 

Harper's Magazine, July 1961 



Old Junior's Progress — From Prep School to Severance Pay 

A post-commencement tribute to the 
Younger Generation, Male, by a kindly 
but fed-up observer of the Limp Genera- 
tion . . . 

W A S H I N G T O N-W h i 1 e our 
young graduates are still atingle 
from the unearned and usually non- 
sensical tributes paid to them by 
middle-aged commencement speak- 
ers, this might be a good time to 
tell off the younger generation, male. 

In kindly and avuncular sunmiary, 
I find them (on the whole) a dis- 
tressingly poor lot— moderately dis- 
pleasing at the best and positive 
stinkers at the worst. II I were a 
newspaper city editor, I would not 
willingly hire any lellow under thirty 
without a searching investigation. If 
I were an adviser to the Peace Corps, 
I should be most suspicious of those 
fresh-faced lads who wish to go off to 
Kenya awash with brotherhood. 

And if I were a trustee of an insti- 
tution of higher learning I would try, 
against all the odds, to put some guts 
into its faculty, and a couple of ad- 
ditional courses into its curriculum. 
One of these would be instruction in 
manners. Another would be some 
drill in what used to be common 
appreciation for one's elders— not 
because they are elders, but because 
they are now being forced to bear an 
unconscionable load of work and 

responsibility. Only the wealth is 
being shared by the youngsters; the 
burden remains exclusively the priv- 
ilege of the grownups. 

Let's face it, the kids are running 
hog-wild. Much has gone into the 
development of this correspondent's 
tired, fed-up malice in this matter. 
For a starter, here is an episode 
which illustrates with pristine clarity 
some of the things that are Avrong 
with American youth, male. 

Recently I received a letter from a 
"Mr." So-and-so who briskly de- 
manded my aid— and time— on a pro- 
ject for his course in journalism. 
(Unhappily, the most unpleasing 
qualities in the younger generation 
seem to be most prevalent among 
boys and girls taking either journa- 
lism or political science). My cor- 
respondent required me to answer 
twenty questions which he had posed 
to help prepare himself for his chosen 
career as a magazine writer. 

No man, not even one so churlish 
as I, would rightly grumble if some 
of his queries were impossible to re- 
ply to— as for example: "How long 
does it take to get to the top?" But, 
I submit, the mushiest old pater- 
familias would find his temperature 
rising as this letter went on. 

For as I read, it began to be borne 
in uj)on me that an extraordinarily 
high percentage of the questions 
dealt, not with writing or reporting 
techniques or other points of pro- 
fessional interest, but raiher with 

matters which one might reasonably 
suppose could be left to chance and 
merit and to a considerably later 
point in the life of my correspondent. 

"What is the average salary of a 
magazine reporter? And at the he- 

"What are the sick benefits and 
unemployment benefits in this pro- 

"What is the retirement ase? 

"Is this profession under Social 

As my aging eyes fell upon this 
row of querulous queries— hardly full 
of that gallantry, that ardent spirit of 
youth-on-the-march— my mind went 
a bit blank. I looked again at the 
accompanying letter in the belief 
that those eyes had tricked me and 
that I had received a communication 
from a man of sixty-five whose ar- 
teries were beginning to harden and 
whose spirit was reaching out for the 
prospect of rest. 

But no; there it was. The letter 
was from a boy in the sophomore 
year of high school. 
^ Now, I do not argue that this is 
the common approach to life of to- 
day's younger male generation. But 
I do say that it is far more nearly 
common than ordinary logic would 
suppose. I base this bleak judgment 
not upon subjective reason, but on 
actual evidence accumulated over the 
years. As a syndicated newspaper : 
columnist, as well as a columnist for 
Harper's, I get a great deal of mail, 
and a good proportion of it is from 
the young. I am, moreover, more 
than usually exposed to communica- 
tions from students of journalism 
and political science. 

You may take my word for it that 
these inquiries are almost invariably 
innocent of any graciousness of tone 
I often have the feeling that I am | 
to consider myself fortunate to have 
been addressed in the first place; that 
I should not shilly-shally about re- 
plying; and that my uninhibited cor- 
respondent would not think of 
uttering anything warmer than al 
sour treble-grunt of thanks. He;,, 
would never be caught dead saying; 

Many a time I have been com 
manded by an aspirant for one de 
gree or another to put aside m^ 
trifling personal tasks and, in effect 
to write his thesis for him. On( 
young person offering me this op 






we ,1 


in ii 
tan- 1 


jortunity had been assigned to do a 
paper in connection with the Senate. 
He observed to me, in passing, that 
vvhile he understood I had written a 
pook about the Senate, he did not 
oropose to read it: I would under- 
>tand, of course, that he was busy. 
Moreover he already knew he would 
lot agree with the book, anyhow. 


NEARLY all of us know fathers 
md mothers who are trying desper- 
itely to cope with this sort of oaf: 
i^e is in his twenties, at an age 
Allien we used to think in this coun- 
ry (as most people in Europe still 
hink) that a chap was a man if 
le was ever going to be. But this 
ellow remains obdurately a most 
epellent little boy. Though long 
fince eligible to shave and vote, he 
nust be cosseted endlessly by his 
h iven parents. Except for him and 
lis boyish demands, they would by 
low be materially solvent and spirit- 
lally able to enjoy those small re- 
vards of travel and relaxation which 
hey have well earned. 

This fellow is a common type. He 
pent his years in prep school or high 
chool mooning about in that drippy 
!vay which we wrongly tend to as- 
lociate with the girls of his age. (In 
)lain truth, the girls are a different 
Old a happier breed altogether. They 
lave far more gumption than the 
nales, more manners and perspec- 
ive, more common sense and self- 
Uscipline. If, as many people think, 
ve Americans have long been living 
inder a matriarchy, one thing is 
ure: the present younger generation 
)f the American male will not redress 
he balance. It well may be that 
\ ithin ten or fifteen years the present 
lominance of the female in adult 
ociety will be seen in retrospect as 
elatively a golden age of manhood.) 

But to return to my male type- 
igure. Having some time ago 
imerged from prep or high school 
n incorrupted ignorance, he has 
ince put in years of a dreary aimless- 
less. Somehow or another, the mili- 
ary had him for a while: a "trainee," 
eluctant at the beginning and un- 
rained, in every sense, at the end. 
A^hen this Sad Sack period of am- 
biguous service had wound to its 
lull close, the military had returned 
jiim, with relief, to his parents— who 

persisted in being doting parents, 
there being not much else to do. 

They went about frantically try- 
ing to get him into some college. He 
had, of course, held out for Yale or 
Harvard or Princeton, or some other 
institution high in cost and stand- 
ards. His marks did not remotely 
qualify him for such a school; nor 
did his true interest, or what the 
educators call his "motivation." Ac- 
tually he had pitched his desire upon 
an Ivy League college (one cannot 
say his "ambition," for ambition is 
one of the many things which he has 
not got) because he thought this 
would be a smart place to go to, 
where he could drive about in his 
convertible with the top down. 

Now this sort of "motivation" 
would not be vastly amiss— in a boy. 
But remember that this hardy adoles- 
cent is past twenty-one. And if all 
goes well he might conceivably be in 
position to shift for himself by the 
time he is, say, thirty-three. 


WHEN the inevitable happens and 
all the big colleges say No, he is 
shipped off to some cow college which 
will open its doors to all who can 
read (plus a lot who can't). Then 
the rather pathetic little plot begins 
to thicken. For Old Junior suddenly 
decides that he must be married, per- 
haps because the television ads show- 
ing domestic bliss among the cleaning 
fluids and car-washing materials have 
put him into a strongly romantic 
frame of mind. 

"Daddy"— this will remain Old 
Junior's term for his father long after 
Old Junior himself has fathered 
several entrants to the family line— is 
quietly apoplectic. Mother (and, 
ultimate horror, she in many cases 
is still "Mommy" to Old Junior) is 
aghast. They have been driven to the 
wall, emotionally and financially, by 
providing simply for Old Junior him- 
self. Now they must somehow find 
the money— and the moral strength 
—to launch his wedding, complete 
to the flowers. Of course, they 
ought to call in their son and say: 

"Now look here, Old Junior, 
enough is enough, and in this in- 
stance there has been too much al- 
ready. We wish you well as our child 
—though, frankly, we could wish, too, 
that you had not insisted on remain- 

ing a child so very long. But this 
is how it is. Old Junior. Regretfully 
we must tell you to go to hell. If 
there is any more college for you, 
you will pay for it. If there is to be 
a marriage for you, you will pay for 
that, too. If you intend to found a 
family you will be responsible for 
and pay for that family, too. Old 
Junior, this is where you get off the 
gravy train; or, to be more exact, 
this is where you descend from the 
lollipop express. Why don't you go 
ahead now and just get a job in a 
filling station?" 

But Daddy and Mommy will not 
take this Spartan course. Instead, 
Daddy will grit his teeth (which 
should have been looked after long 
ago but were not because Old Junior 
was, at the time, in the Army and 
required a weekly check to supple- 
ment his military earnings). He will 
go out and add a mortgage to the two 
or three he is already carrying. 
Mommy will again pass up the coat 
she thought she might be able at 
last to buy, and she will tear up the 
folders about Bermuda. 

So they will usher Old Junior into 
the wedded state with wistful fan- 
fare—and their troubles will begin 
to multiply. The apartment they had 
found for Old Junior and Mrs. Old 
Junior (and one must pity this hap- 
less girl) will very shortly be too 
small or otherwise not suitable. A 
bigger apartment— and a bigger re- 
mittance to Old Junior— will then 

Whatever Daddy and Mommy do, 
however, to make Old Junior com- 
fortable in his academic pursuits, it 
will turn out to have been too little. 
Old Junior's growing family will in- 
terfere with his intellectual life, and 
the kindly college of his non-choice 
will begin to murmur that even its 
standards Old Junior is failing to 
meet. He will switch from a major 
in one of the arcane subjects like 
history to a major in, say, the man- 
agement of hotel barber shops. 

But however Old Junior twists and 
turns and works and works at his 
studies (sometimes two or three 
whole hours a week), he will in- 
creasingly need help. The Dean will 
join Daddy and Mommy in his line 
of support; and other hands will be 
enlisted. At length, these hands will 
include those of a Marriage Counse- 
lor, summoned to help Straighten 

How to achieve a youthful body and 
vibrant health-without tiring exercises 

th juM ten unittute^ a 4a^! 


By Bess M. Meiisendieck, M.D. 

Foreword by Paul B. Magnuson, M.D., 
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Which of these chapters 
can help you? 

• Comfort for the Feet 

• Reduce the Buttock Area 

• Flatten the Abdomen 

• Strengthen the Bock 

• Square the Shoulders 

• Increase Your Breathing Capacity 

• Slenderize the Waistline 

• End Backache 

• Reduce the Thighs and Abdomen 

• Sculpture the Chest 

• Abolish Double Chin 

• Slenderize the Hips 

• Sculpture the Upper Back 

• Strengthen the Ankles and Feet 

• Mold the Arms 

• Limber the Knee Joints 

• Shape the Legs 

• Strengthen the Feet 

• Combined Movement Schemes 

Enthusiastic Praise for 

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Out Old Junior— although Old Jun- 
ior, characteristically, will think thatj. 
this lady has come into the menage 
to Straighten Out the deplorable 
maladjustments of Mrs. Old Junior. 
Mrs. Old Junior by this time will 
begin to wonder whether it is all 
worthwhile. And sometiines, right in 
front of Old Junior, she will ex- 
change wordless glances of quiet | 
ineaning with Old Junior's Daddy" 
and Mommy. So it will all wind up, 
of course, in divorce. Mrs. Old Junior 
will go to work, but she will not be 
able— because she has had no train- 
ing—to take care alone of the three 
or four children magnanimously left 
in her care by Old Junior. Daddy and 
Mommy will come forward again— 
and again. 


OLD JUNIOR himself will move 
into the fraternity house, an enigma- 
tic elderly figure of domestic tragedy 
to the sophomores there in residence; 
but still a Little Boy to himself. He 
will now complete his intellectual 
training. And when the time comes 
for the preparation of his thesis upon 
the Management of Certain Types 
of Barber Shops, he will bestir him- \ 
self mightily and find the name and 
address of some suitable professional 
adviser. His eye will fall upon some 
unfortunate Master Barber; and he 
will then briskly privilege this citizen 
with orders to put down his shears, 
lock his shoj) doors, and "help" Old 
Junior to write the thesis which will 
establish his bona fides, vindicate his 
long search for knowledge, and de- 
dare him at last to be a Man. And 
])()or Old Junior will say to himself 
— just as he is telephoning Daddy to 
be sure to make hiin an appointment 
with those who employ masters in 
I he an of the management of barber 
shops— that it has been a long hard 
way uj) but that now, by God, he has 
made it at last. 

Daddy and Mommy, too, can now 
leel some sense of (|ualified relaxa- 
tion—until the day, that is, when 
Old Junior's einj)loyer incontinently 
and ungenerously hurls him out 
upon the public streets. His cats will 
be lull of the boss's maledictions but 
his pocket will be soothed by the 
boss's (li((k lor severance pay and a 
booklti on how to a|)ply for tuicm- 
ployment compensation. 


the new 



Summer Fiction: Steinbeck, Silone, 
and Some Women on the Loose 

RUNNING through all of John Stein- 
beck's career as a novelist is an uneasy and 
unresolved debate about the nature of man. 
In some of his hook^— Cannery Row and Siveet 
Thursday are obvious examples— he sees man as 
essentially a biological organism like another, 
innocently helping himself to whatever he needs 
to make life bearable and enjoyable without re- 
gard to the rules of conduct laid down by society, 
which is portrayed as deserving whatever mulct- 
ing it gets. In such books Steinbeck is the sym- 
pathetic, amused, but largely detached observer, 
looking upon his characters with a benign, for- 
giving smile such as one might turn upon a 
bunch of puppies playfully chewing up a shoe, 
as long as the shoe belongs to somebody else. 

But alongside the biologist-observer there is 
another Steinbeck who sees man as a moral 
being, a being whose actions constitute signifi- 
cant choices between right and wrong. This 
Steinbeck is capable of indignation, of outrage, 
and his masterpiece is The Grapes of Wrath. 

In only one book, the story of a strike pub- 
lished twenty-five years ago, In Dubious Battle, 
Steinbeck arranged a confrontation of sorts be- 
tween his two views of man; one of the main 
characters in that book is a passive but sym- 
pathetic observer of the action, a young doctor 
who is ready to help the sick or wounded strikers 
with his professional skill but who otherwise 
refuses to participate; the other is an activist, 
the leader of the strike, a man convinced that 
society is wrong and that he must do some- 
thing to attempt to set it right. The debate be- 
tween the two remains inconclusive, as it seems 
to have remained in Steinbeck's own mind, 
though over the years the attitude of the young 
doctor has tended to predominate. 

Steinbeck's new book. The Winter of Our 
Discontent (Viking, $4.50), is the work of Stein- 
beck the moralist. The main character is a man 
named Ethan Allen Hawley, a veteran of the 

second world war who lives in an old seaport 
town on the Long Island coast. He is happily 
married and has a son and daughter in their 
early teens; his family had once been rich and 
influential but his father dissipated most of 
the family fortune and what little remained 
Hawley himself lost in an unsuccessful business 
venture after the war, and now he works as a 
clerk in a grocery store. Of the family's past 
greatness there remain only a fine house that 
Hawley still lives in, an assortment of family 
mementos, and a vague community awareness 
that the Hawleys were once people of conse- 
quence in the town. 

At the outset of the story, Hawley is content 
enough with his lot; he is willing to go without 
a car and a television set and other conveniences 
and marks of status because he enjoys being an 
honest man who does a humble job conscien- 
tiously. But all around him he sees other men 
cheating and lying in various picayune, semilegal, 
or illegal ways to get ahead, and he begins to 
wonder if he is not a fool to refrain from doing 
the same. Then when a local banker offers him 
the chance to come in on a real estate deal, he 
decides to take a vacation from strict morality 
long enough to accumulate a stake and re-estab- 
lish his family fortunes. Soon he is up to his 
neck in a series of shady but ingenious schemes 
to get money without working for it, and the plot 
is made up of the working out of these schemes. 

In the end Hawley realizes that success of 
the sort he has gone after carries a moral price 
that is for him exorbitant. This realization is 
borne in upon him largely by what hapjjens to 
his own son. The boy, a pure opportunist with 
none of his father's scruples, has won :i prize 
for an essay on "The Spirit of America," and as 
a consequence is well on his way to becoming 
a television star when it is discovered that he 
has actually cribbed the essay from the speeches 
of various past great Americans that he has 
found among the family books in the attic. 

In one respect Steinbeck's morality has under- 



gone a profound change. In the earlier books 
that he wrote as a novelist, books like In Dubious 
Battle and The Grapes of U'ratli, he Avrote as 
if from outside society, and the good men were 
men fighting for change, for something new. 
But The Winter of Our Discontent is a deeply 
conservative book; the good man is now the 
preserver of the best in an inherited tradition; 
his task is to hand on that best to his progeny. 
In a way Steinbeck the passive observer of life 
and Steinbeck the moralist have merged, be- 
cause the moral man has become the man who 
is aware of the chicanery and double-dealing 
around him but who quietly lives his own hum- 
ble life by his own principles. Such, presum- 
al)ly, is the true "spirit of America." 

But if Steinbeck has at least partially suc- 
ceeded in merging or reconciling his two views 
of man in Tlie Winter of Our Discontent, he 
has not succeeded in finding the right style to 
do it in. The book has the tone and atmosphere 
of lighthearted suburban domestic comedy, quite 
inappropriate to the seriousness of the theme 
or of some of the events. At one point, for in- 
stance, Hawley plans to rob a bank as part of his 
vacation from morality, but the whole incident 
has about it an air of wild improvisation and 
improbability that keep the reader from taking 
it seriously; he knows as he reads that somehow 
our hero will not commit the robbery as surely 
as he knows in watching an old Harold Lloyd 
comedy that our hero will not fall ofT the twen- 
tieth-story ledge. And, rather typically, the situ- 
ation is resolved not through any exploration 
of the morality of robbing banks, any failure 
of courage or triumph of nobility, but through 
the all-too-pat fairy-godmothcrish arrival of an- 
other character. 

In sum the novel seems too often to be an 
example of the very qualities that it deplores. 
The plot is so full of clever devices and ingenious 
tricks that the moral issues become lost or muted 
or glossed over; the situations presented ought 
to lead to a searching of the soul but usually 
they are resolved by slick contrivance. Explicitly 
in his story Steinbeck has pointed a moral about 
the spirit of America; imj^licitly, by his way of 
telling his story, he has peihaps pointed another. 


THE Italian novelist Igna/.io Silone is also 
(oncerned with the relation between private 
morality and society; indeed this subject has 
occupied him in his novels niiuh more con- 
sistently than it has Steinbeck, in his new book, 
The Fox and the C^amellias (Haiper, S.S..50), 
Silone's main character is a middle-aged Social- 
ist named Daniele, a Swiss who li\cs just over 
the bonier from Italy. 

Daniele is involved in a pl(»l against the- Italian 
goverrirnc:nt (the lime (A tlic luutk is luvct < l(;irly 

indicated, but apparently it is the period of Mus- 
solini's dictatorship), and his chief accomplice in 
the plot is a bold and sturdy young man named 
Agostino, who not only shares Daniele's political 
ideas but hopes to become a member of his family 
through marriage to Daniele's elder daughter 

But the Italian government is aware of what is 
going on so near its border, and it sends an agent 
into Switzerland to uncover the plot. This agent 
attempts to work through an old seamstress who 
because of her work goes into the houses of the 
leading citizens of the comminiity and is there- 
fore able to pick up gossip about what is afoot. 
She is also particularly vulnerable to intimida- 
tion because she is in fact an Italian citizen who 
can be deported if the authorities are alerted to 
her status. In her distress at the role of spy that is 
being forced upon her, the old seamstress turns 
to Daniele to help her out, and he alerts his 
aide and supposed future son-in-law Agostino 
to keep an eye on the Italian agent, with the re- 
sult that Agostino beats up the agent within an 
inch of his life. 

But then a reversal sets in. The seriously in- 
jured Italian agent takes refuge in a farmhouse, 
pretending that he has been hurt in an automo- 
bile accident, and the farmhouse happens to be 
Daniele's. There, in her father's absence, Silvia, 
the betrothed of Agostino, nurses the young 
Italian back to life, and they proceed to fall in 
love with each other. It is not until he is ready 
to leave the house that the Italian agent goes into 
Silvia's father's study and discovers from the 
books and documents there that the girl he loves 
is the daughter of the leader of the very group 
of plotters that he has come to S^\■itzerland to 
destroy. In his anguish at the discovery of the 
conflict between his personal feelings for Silvia 
and his political loyalty to the regime that her 
father opposes, the young man commits suicide, 
and the book ends. 

The point of all this seems to be that in any 
political conflict there are men capable of a 
mixture of nobility and baseness on both sides— 
in using his great strength to rough up the Italian 
agent, Agostino is doing ^vhal he thinks is right, 
though it is a brutal act; in his horror at the 
conflict bet^veen his jiersonal and public loyal- 
ties, the young Italian commits suicide, an act 
both desperate and brave. The symbolism of 
Silone's title is o|Kn to a number of interpre- 
tations, but the fox seems to represent the 
public, political violence and division that link 
behind and constantly threaten the Iragiant 
tenderness of jx-rsonal relationships. 

On the whole. The Fox and the Cainellias is 
a curiously flat little stor\. Probabh the Italian 
original has a certain amount of low-keyed com- 
edy and wannih that tend to be lost in the 
somewhat stilted translation of peasant speech. 
But however may be, llie book falls some- 

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by John Steinbeck 

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where between the simplicity of a 
table and the complexity of a novel, 
without quite achieving the virtues 
of either. The characters are so 
lightly sketched that the reader 
hardly knows them well enough to 
(are greatly about what happens to 
them; the plot is clumsy, and the 
j)oint it makes is scarcely new. 


Jimmy Riddle, by Ian Brook (Put- 
nam, S3. 95) is a novel about con- 
temporary politics that approaches 
its subject with remarkably little 
ambiguity, though the j^oint of view 
it espouses so clearly and emphati- 
cally is noAV unpopular and will 
strike many readers as old-fashioned 
if not downright reactionary. 

The scene is an African kingdom 
called Alabasa, which will not be 
found on any map, at least not un- 
der that name. The nominal and in 
many ways the actual rider is a 
hereditary chieftain, the Balabasa of 
Alabasa, a man deeply learned in 
the ancient wisdom of his people and 
committed to their ancestral cults, 
\et with quite enough aw;ireness of 
the modern world to be deeply con- 
cerned about the ^\ay it is encroach- 
ing on his kingdom. His colleague in 
rule and best friend is the local Brit- 
ish District Commissioner (for Ala- 
basa is part of a British colony), 
jimmy Riddle. 

Riddle is the sort of colonial ad- 
ministrator that Kipling would have 
regarded as the right sort: he is a 
gentleman, with a gentleman's abil- 
ity to hold his liquor, handle his 
women, speak native languages, act 
with dispatch and courage and im- 
agination in any situation, and rec- 
ognize in the Balabasa another gen- 
tleman with whom he can deal man- 

Left to themselves, the Balabasa 
and Jimmy Riddle between them 
would prejKire the Alabasians for the 
modern world in tluir own slow 
but safe and gentlcmaidy way. But 
they are not kit to themselves, l)e- 
cause ranged against them are three 
powerful enemies: the British Resi- 
dent, \\\\() li\(s in the dislant (ajjilal 
ol tlic (()\()]\\ and li;is no (orKern 
lor the icsponsibiliiies ol his posi- 
tion beyond the advaiKcmcm ol his 
own career; the British C>)lonial Ol 


fice in far-oiT London, which is hag- 
ridden with the anticolonial slogans 
of ideological M.P.'s and fear of 
United Nations intervention; and 
the new African nationalist leaders, 
portrayed as a group of brash, self- 
seeking upstarts, ignorant sons of de- 
tribalized slaves, with just enough 
low cunning to line their pockets 
with foreign aid and to manipulate 
well-meaning but stupid anticolo- 
nialists to their own advantage. 

It is unnecessary to trace the proc- 
ess by which Jimmy Riddle and the 
Balabasa defeat their enemies and 
save the day for those who really 
understand the "white chaps" and 
the "black chaps" of the right sort, 
but to a reader who knows no more 
about Africa than what he reads in 
the daily papers, their victory is 
likely to appear as a piece of senti- 
mental anachronism. It looks as if 
the future belongs to the nationalist 
leaders, whether or not they are the 
kind of cheap opportunists that they 
are pictured as being in fit)) my Rid- 
dle. The book advances the argu- 
ment for the white-man's-burden 
view of colonialism ^vith a good deal 
of force and conviction, and much 
of it is entertaining reading, but it 
is some light years away from the 
quality of such classic novels of Brit- 
ish colonialism as Forster's A Pas- 
sage to India and Orwell's Burmese 
Days, on grounds quite apart from 
the point of view it espouses. 


A NEW novel by Jay Williams, 
The Forger (Atheneum, .?4.95), is an 
unpretentious but moderately enter- 
taining story about a group of young 
artists in Greenwich \'illage. Most 
of them live in a kind of moral and 
artistic twilight zone, dependent on 
the whims of art editors for the com- 
mercial jobs that keej) them alive 
but at the same time trying to man- 
ipulate dealers, rich patrons, critics, 
and foundation grants so that they 
can find the leisure to do the kind 
of independent work I ha I really in- 
terests tiiem. 

The main character and narrator 
of The Forger is a young man named 
Rulus Cirilfni, a Brooklyn boy who 
discovered his talent caily and has 
alrc-ady eslablishcd a small i(|)uta- 
lion lor himsell, though he now 
spends most ol his lime turning out 

Breakdown (World, ,14.95) is a first 
novel that is not only about a painter 
but also by a painter, a young Eng- 
lishman named John Bratby, best 
known in this country for the paint- 
ings he did for the motion ])icture 
The Horse's Mouth. Bratby has illus- 
trated Breakdown with a good many 
of his own drawings, all of them 
vigorously rejiulsive. 

In rough outline the book traces 
the jjsychological deterioration of a 
successful artist over a period of 
years, l)ui in fact it is an almost in- 
describable hodgepodge. There are 
some scenes of considerable loice, 
but their effect is largely destroyed 

lascivious covers for paperbacks and { 
pursuing assorted young women ol 
his acquaintance. But he discovers 
that he has a certain gift for inii 
tating the style of earlier periods; t 
at first he uses it honestly in restor- 
ing damaged works of art, but then 
the possibility of outright forgery 
presents itself, and he sees the way 
out that he, like all his friends, is 
seeking— a way of making a large 
amount of money that will free him | 
from further hack work to paint as 
he pleases. | 

Alongside Griffin's development as < 
a forger in art runs a love affair 
that is also a kind of forgery in per 
sonal relations. Griffin contracts a 
liaison with a rich girl named Adri- 
enne who is living the life of an 
artist though in fact she has no 
talent. At bottom Griffin knows that 
Adrienne is extremely unstable and 
not to be trusted, that their relation- 
ship has a shaky present and no fu- 
ture, but he keeps himself chained 
to her through willful self-deception j 
as to her true nature, though in the I 
end, predictably enough, he is re- 
claimed from both his artistic and 
his i^ersonal lapses into fakery. 

The most interesting parts of The 
Forger are those that deal with the 
technical aspects of forgers— the way ■ 
new paintings are artificially aged, 
the process of "authentication" by 
experts, the methods of marketing 
fakes, and so on. Williams seems 
to be well informed about such fas- 
cinating matters. He is less interested 
in the moral and aesthetic problems 
raised by forgery, and a good deal 
of his book is filled out with more 
or less standard scenes from Bo- 
hemian life. 




by William Sansom 

Europe's favorite places 
limned by "one of the 
most brilliant living travel 
writers. In a few dazzling 
paragraphs he fixes es- 
sences -- tones, tints, 
perfumes, vistas, sculp- 
tural masses, historic 
associations . , . Sansom 
is a writer who teaches 
people to see.'' 
— Newsweek. Handsome 
photographs illustrate 
each chapter. $6.50 




3,000 Years 
of Deception 

by Frank Arnau 

The story of art forgery 
and forgers from ancient 
Egypt to the present day. 
A fascinating study of 
the techniques of faking 
everything from Meissen 
porcelain to Van Gogh 
oils; of the methods by 
which these frauds were 
discovered; and of the 
accomplished forgers 
like van Meegeren who 
have duped collectors, 
museum experts, critics 
and scholars. Lovishly 
illustrated in full color 
and in half tone. $7*50 


delighted millions 
with his memorable best seller 


He now offers 

a new and unforgettable 

reading experience 


A Book- 'Wm" 
of-the-Month'' . 
Selection 'S^m 

A book destined 

to become 

one of the most important and 

widely read novels 

of our time. 

"The enormous audience that has so enthusiastically 
read Shirer's Rise and Fall of the Third Reich will 
most certainly want to read Kennan's Russia and 
THE West," — Denver Post 

^Russia and the West 

Under Lenin and Stalin 


"It is not often that a book as instructive as this one manages 
to be so engrossing that it is bound tO keep even general 
readers fascinated long past their bedtimes. George F. Kennan 
[formerly U. S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union, now Ambas- 
sador to Yugoslavia] is an artist as well as an experienced 
.diplomat; a moralist as well as an accomplished historian.'* 
— Marshall D. Shulman, TV. Y. Times Book RevievfT 

A Book-of-the-Month Club Selection • $5.75 

^-.^■^v ','^A-v«m-ve'«igf!snmti-si:si!:s:m<:i'ys>(W-«i' ;,^'^^t^'>--if>'' ^'■--^r-.'^.'^v^iik 

^Atlantic Monthly Press Books • l.iTTI..E, BROWN & COMPANY* boston 



by the author's intrusive facctious- 
ness and stupid commentary. The 
depths of his psychological penetra- 
tion may be judged by such a pas- 
sage as this: ". . . few of us are simple 
characters when the veneers are re- 
moved, and few of us are simple 
to analyze, the underlying causes for 
our actions being often multiple 
and contradictory"— an insight that 
will hardly be ne^v to most readers 
in 196J. The Avriting is frequently 
marred by stale language; things haj)- 
pen in "the wee small hours" and 
have "dire consequences" and are 
otherwise wrapped up in cliches; 
yet some of the writing is forceful 
and direct. 

But the most annoying aspect of 
the book is the author's way of in- 
terrupting the development of the 
central character's decline with some 
facetious remark addressed to his 
"dear reader" or abandoning the 
central character altogether in fa- 
vor of a meandering account of some- 
body extremely peripheral to the 
main story. The effect of the whole 
thing is a little as if Laurence Sterne 
had tried to write a novel based on 
a plot by Dostoevski. 

Breakdoiun has vitality and exu- 
berance and imagination, but it is 
undisciplined and often silly. 

Clem Anderson b) R. V. Cassill 
(Simon & Schuster, .'^5.95) has as its 
main character a writer, rather than 
a painter, and it is in every ^vay a 
more ambitious book than either 
of those just discussed. 

Clem Anderson, the title-character, 
grows up in a small Middle Western 
town in the dej^rcssion years and has 
the sexual adventures that boys in 
small Middle Western towns usually 
have, at least in novels. Then he 
goes to a state university (it sounds a 
good deal like the University of 
Iowa) where he decides that he wants 
to be a writer and attracts a certain 
amount of attention by his work, 
and where he falls in love with a 
girl named Sheila. After service in 
the war and a brief period in a 
psychiatric hospital, he and Sheila 
go to Mexico, where he writes a book 
of poetry and starts a novel; later 
they move on to Paris, then back to 
New York, where the novel is pub 
lished with some siufcss. Cilem iries 
to write for the tluaire; his marri 
age to Sheila collajjses; he becomes 

more and more alcoholic and dies at 
about the age of forty in the late 
1950s, the great poem he planned to 
write ("Prometheus Bound") still im- 
written. In a sentence: CUnn Andcr- 
sou is a study of the waste and trag- 
edy of romantic genius in America. 

But such a summary presents the 
barest bones of a novel that is not 
only very long (627 pages of small- 
ish type) but also very elaborately 
developed in every dimension. In- 
deed, Clem Anderson is a book of 
which the reader gets the impression 
that the author has put into it every- 
thing he has thought or felt or read; 
that it represents a labor so vast, 
so inclusive, and so personal that to 
criticize it adversely is almost in- 

Yet I must confess that for my 
taste the book is badly inflated. 
There are too many incidents, too 
many characters, too many symbols, 
too much fine writing. Often the 
excesses of language are almost lu- 
dicrous, as in occasional figures of 
speech ("we never knew whose cheek 
he had his tongue in when he talked 
like that") or in longer passages like 
the following apostrophe to a canoe 
on a college lake: 

O Canoe, thou perfect Freudian sym- 
bol, how can any campus be complete 
without thee? You vaginal flotillas, 
bright-painted as an array of lipsticks 
on a dime-store counter, on what 
lakes and rivers of surrendered time 
do you not float, frustrating symbols 
of fulfillment! Already in thee, and 
aching pleasure nigh, our duckfot 
[duckfoot?] paddles scraping thy sides 
like juvenile swans scrambling for 
purchase on the Ledean vessel! Thou 
grounder on the mudbanks of the 
Illisus, what poops of burnished gold 
bore more fitly Her of the rain pud- 
dles and Midwestern ponds and the 
morning surf on Cyprian beaches? 
Canoe, qu'as-iu fait de ma jrunessr? 

That, of course, is meant to be 
funny, and perhaps it is, but there 
are a good many serious passages 
that can come close to matching it 
for fancy literariness of allusion and 

T II i; (; L O () M OF T FI I. IRISH 

The Edge of Sadness (Atlantic - 
Little, Brown, $5) is Kdwin O'CJon- 
nor's fusi novel since- his exiremely 
success! ul and enleriaining story 

about Boston politics. The Last 
Hurrah, and it bears a rough resem- 
blance to the j>revious book in that 
it presents a picture of an earlier 
and livelier generation of Boston 
Irish as seen through the eyes of a 
younger, less exuberant man. 

The chief representative of the 
older generation in this book is not 
a politician as in The Last Hurrah 
but a businessman, chiefly an oper- 
ator in slum real estate, a wily, witty, 
inexhaustibly vivacious and tirelessly 
devious old man named Charlie Car- 
mody. O'Connor's picture of old 
Carmody is a brilliant piece of char- 
acterization, though Carmody lacks 
the fascination of the old politician 
in The Last Hurrah because he is 
essentially a static figure, tenaciouslv 
hanging on to his fortune and re- 
lentlessly bullying his middle-aged 
family, but not engaged in any 
crucial action such as the old poli- 
tician's final fight for office. 

As a consequence, the next gener- 
ation, the generation of old Car- 
mody's children, tends to occupy the 
center of interest in the novel. They 
are the characters who live on "the 
edge of sadness," unable to recapture 
the high spirits of their father Avho 
fought his way up from the slums 
to become a man of wealth, but 
equally unable to free themselves of 
their father's psychological domina- 

The most interesting member of 
this generation of the Carmody fam- 
ily is the son who became a priest, 
Father John Carmody, who is now 
the pastor of the old family parish. 
Father John is a curiously twisted, 
ingroAvn man, devout in his religion 
but hating his father and his parish- 
ioners, consumed with loneliness yet 
wanting to be left alone. 

The story is told by another priest. 
Father Hugh Kennedy, whose father 
had been an acquaintance if hardly 
an admirer of old Charlie Carmody, 
and who has himself been a life- 
long friend of all the Carmody chil- 
dren and a fellow-seminarian with 
Father John. Father Kennedy has 
not had an easy life; after an ini- 
tially happy jjericxl in the priesthood 
he slowly drifted into alcoholism, 
until his bishoj) had to send him to 
spend Icjiir years in a sanitarium for 
alcoholic priests in Arizona. At the 
lime of tlie story Father Kennedy 
has been rehabilitated, but he has 



An enchanting novel of a young 
American couple in France. "A 
work of an."— Washington Star. 
"His style is a ]oy."—TI:)e Neto 
Yorker. "A pleasure to read."— 
N. Y. Times. "Most appealing." 
—Saturday Review. Designed by 
Warren Chappell. Jacket by 
Ilonka Karasz. $4-95 




A new novel bv the author of 
The Hard Blue Sky and The 
Black Prince. The gripping story 
of a Southern girl whose one 
tragic mistake had far-reaching 
consequences. Orvu^le Prescott 
calls M iss Grau, " A born writer." 
Designed by George Salter. 

■ I3-50 



Set in the midst of the crowded, 
mysterious life of the Jewish 
community in an English city. 
At its center stand a rabbi, mid- 
dle-aged, unmarried, and a girl 
of rare integrity, daughter of a 
man who represents Judaism 
at its narrowest. Designed by 
George Salter. $4.50 

~ •«. and 

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A social, political and cultural history of America's oldest and new- 
est frontier— Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico and Arizona— from the 
oarlv cliff dwellers to the booming modern cities. With 38 halftone 
illustrations and 2 maps. Designed by Warren Chappell. $7.50 


"He \\ rites about scores of plays and talks about each freshly and 
eagerlv — the experience of a man who has read both widely and 
\\ ell."- Granville Hicks. "He belongs to the Edmund Wilsons of 
this world."— C. R Snow. Designed by Vincent Torre. I5.00 


The beautiful memoir of O'Connor's early years. "It sparkles in depth 
with humor. At times it is appallingly sad. Always it is movingly 
beautiful."— N. Y. Herald Tribune. Designed by Warren Chappell. 


The author of The Singing Wilderness tells a true tale of thrilling 
white-water adventure by canoe down 500 miles of Canada's wild 
Churchill River, re-exploring the same rapids, lakes, portages and 
primitive haunts of the voyageurs of an earlier time. Illustrated by 
Francis Lee Jaques. $4-50 


A fascinating account for the. layman of the new anaesthetic tech- 
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ago. By the Director, Research Department of Anaesthetics, Royal 
College of Surgeons of England. Designed by Guy Fleming. $4.50 

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returned to work as the pastor of 
deteriorating church in a criunbli 
parish, like Father John Carmoi 
a lonely, middle-aged celibate o 
of touch with the lives of his p: 
rishioners, withdrawn and perfum 
tory in the performance of his dutiei 

The best parts of The Edge 
Sadyiess are those dealing with thi 
priestly life. Rarely in America 
fiction is the Catholic priest pr 
sented as a human being coping wit 
human problems of ambition am 
money and loneliness like anybod 
else (the short stories of J. F. Powers^ 
are an obvious exception), but 
O'Connor has succeeded in portray-| 
ing priests as men, without any trao 
of anticlericalism or satire. 

The Edge of Sadness lacks the nar- 
rative poAver of The Last Hurrah 
though it has its comic passages, it ii 
« cjuieter, more somber book. B 
within its modest limits it is a sue 
cesslul and mo\'ing picture of cer- 
tain aspects of .American life that 
have rarely been explored in fiction, i 
(A Book-of-the-Month Club selec- 
tion.) ' 



BOTH A Shooting Star by Wal-i 
lace Stegner (Viking, S5) and The 
House on Coliseum Street by Shirley 
Ann Grau (Knopf, $3.50) are stories) 
about women who have lost their 
moorings and find themselves adrift* 
on the uncertain currents of un- 
familiar feelings, though the two 
books otherwise bear no resemblance 
to one another. 

Miss Grau's central character in 
The House on Coliseum Street is a 
young woman named Joan Mitchell. 
Joan has been left a considerable 
amount of money by her father, the 
first of her mother's numerous hus- 
bands, and she lives with her mother 
and assorted half-sisters in a large, 
comfortable old house in New Or- 
leans. It is a fairly amiable, rather 
directionless existence— Joan takes 
some courses at the local university 
to help fill up her days, she has an 
oll-and-on affair with a young man 
who fails lo interest her greatly but 
\vho will presumably marry her in 
time, she carries on sporadic domes- 
tic scjuabbles with her mother and 
her somewhat more attractive 
younger half-sister Doris. Then sud- 
denly Joan i;; deeply involved \\'\\\\ 



ia young instructor :it the university 
(who has earlier been one of Doris's 
admirers, but the reh^tionshijj fails 
to last, and when tlie young man 
idrifts back to Doris, Joan sets out 
to destroy him, witn success. 

The novel is admirably written, 
tense and understated. It seems to 
portray a kind of post-moral world 
su(h as a reader encounters in the 
books of certain younger French 
^\■riters— a Avorld in which right and 
Avjong have little )elevancc to what 
tlie characters expect of themselves 
and of eadi other. I confess that it 
is difficult for me to take any con- 
sinning interest in characters of this 
sort, but I can admire the economy 
and skill with which Miss Grau 
has told her story. 

IN A Shooting Star Stegner has 
written a much longer and more 
fully developed novel. His heroine 
is a woman named Sabrina Castro, 
brought up in the strict traditions 
of a wealthy Boston family trans- 
planted to California and married 
for about a dozen years to a cold- 
blooded but successful society direc- 
tor. On a vacation in Mexico, very 
much to her own surprise, Sabrina 
enters into an adulterous relationship 
with a dealer in textiles. For her it 
is a revelation; she decides that she 
is deeply in love and cannot return 
to her husband. But her lover is 
a good deal more circumspect about 
the whole thing; when it becomes 
apparent that he has no intention 
of sacrificing his business and family 
to their affair, Sabrina completes the 
job of cutting loose from the moral 
standards that have previously 
guided her life, and becomes a sort 
of society tramp. 

In the end, of course, Sabrina gets 
herseif straightened out, chiefly 
through coming to know her old 
Boston-bred mother, not as the 
dragon of propriety she has always 
seemed but as another woman who 
has also suffered and learned to bear 
her deprivations and indignities as 
Sabrina must. 

A Shooting Star is the work of 
a highly competent craftsman. The 
characters are skillfully drawn and 
the story well constructed. If it never 
rises much above the level of care- 
ful, conscientious workmanship, it 
never falls very much bclo\\- it cither. 
(A Literary Guild Selection.) 


in brief 



There are two recently published 
books whose chief purpose, happily 
for everybody, is to amuse, and to 
which it would be a disservice to re- 
view the plot, even if one could. One 
is Louis Kronenberger's witty A 
Month of Sundays, and the other 
The Adventures of Maud Noakes, 
edited by Alan Neame. 

A Month of Sundays, by Louis Kron- 

This is a modern Mad Hatter's 
Tea Party where today's most hor- 
rendous social foibles are made to 
appear as outrageously absurd as 
they are. The scenes are acted out by 
a cast whom Mr. Kronenberger sets 
in a luxury institution called "Se- 
renity House" and directs with de- 
licious dialogue and deft but never 
heartless satire, through mock-human 

Viking, $3.50 

The Adventures of Maud Noakes, 

edited by Alan Neame. 

Maud Noakes was the daughter of 
an Englishwoman who worked ener- 
getically, when Maud was young, for 
the Anglican Society for the Propaga- 
tion of Christian Knowledge— par- 
ticularly among Africans. But Maud 
at any early age noticed that in spite 
of all the talk of being kind to the 
"black brothers and sisters" in Africa, 
her mother would move if she found 
herself sitting next to one on a tram. 
This led her into strange cogitations 
and stranger doings as she herself 
goes to Africa (and then pretty well 
all over Europe and East Asia) on a 
quite different kind of personal mis- 
sionary venture. Any book which 
has been heralded as comparable to 
"the best comic writing of Ronald 
Firbank and Evelyn Waugh" starts 
off under considerable handicap but 
unquestionably this Maud, this 
exotic and sexy "latter-day female 
Candide," will have her followers. 
New Directions, $3.75 

All the Summer Days, by Ned 


Those summer days in Paris in the 
1920s were the ones in which Lind 
bergh flew the Atlantic; the final ap- 

A wonderful 
treasury of 


65 best 




Here are stories about people from 
New York tenements and Mediter- 
ranean villas, wised-up kids and 
gentle old men, the shiny nouveaux 
riches and the shabby old-fash- 
ioned poor. Some are heels, some 
are heroes, but you will remember 
them all long after you put this 
book down. $5.95, now at your 
bookstore f^ RANDOM HOUSE 

A superb 

biographical novel 

about one of the 

greatest painters 

who ever lived 


Author of David the King 

Here is the heart, the mind, and 
the times of a genius, his passion 
and compassion, liis enonnous zest 
for living. Truly a work of art. 
$5.95, now at your bookstore 


Reprints Available 

Because of the unusual demand 
for "The Coininja; Rust in the Real 
Estate IJooni"— the lead article in 
Harper's June issue— reprints have 
Ijeen made available. 1 hey may 
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from : 

Department G, Harper's Magazine 
49 East 33rd St. 
New York 16, N.Y. 


spellbinding portrait 
of Adriennc, the wife of 
La Fayette . . . one of 
the most appealing 
heroines in history 

Based on letters and documents forgotten 
for a century in a French chateau 

Illustrated. $7.95. ■ McGRAW-HILL 

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49 last 33rci St. New York 16, N. Y. 


peal of Sacco and Van/etti was 
turned down and they were executed; 
Mussolini and Hitler were building 
up their power; the Babe had already 
reached the height ot his; Gertrude 
Stein, Hemingway, and Isadora Dun- 
can were familiar figures on the 
boulevards; "The Big Parade" Avas 
the talked-of movie. But to the ex- 
patriate young Americans on the 
siafi ol the Paris Atnericdii this a*' is 
;ill merely background. Foreground 
WA^ the search lor their own personal 
pleasure or salvation. The atmos- 
phere of Paris in the spring is wo i- 
derfully recreated; it is almost pal- 
pable. If there seem sometimes too 
many characters to keep straight even 
with the help of the chart provided, 
some of them on the other hand are 
unforgettably sharp. If the parties 
seem to go on too long and run into 
each other, and the sAvift exchanges 
of sexual partners— including the 
final switch— are a little hard to take, 
perhaps that is the way it Avas. 

The novel is a nostalgic reminder 
of a generation that thought itself 
happily lost in a magic city far from 
home, turning its back on respon- 
sibility and the outside Avorld. The 
contemporary Italian movie, "La 
Dolce Vita," about an Italian neAvs- 
paperman and his friends makes the 
excesses of these summer days look 
like child's play but one has the sense 
that the author of this book believes 
—and hopes— that for young Ameri- 
cans at least, the days of political de- 
tachment are finished except, as here, 
in vital and nostalgic memory. 

Little, BroAvn, S4.50 

The Dark and the Light, by Elio 
Vittorini. Translated by Frances 

In this book the author of The 
R(ul Carnation and The Elephant 
includes tAvo Avonderfully contrast- 
ing novellas, "Erica" and "La Gari- 
baldina." "Erica" is a most ex- 
(juisitely restrained and tautly writ- 
ten story of a fourteen-year-old girl 
abandoned by her parents, and her 
efforts to feed and take care of her 
\oiinfj;er brother and sister in a 
poverty-ridden slum outside a city in 
lion hern Italy. I have never read a 
siinjjler and more (juietly moving 
siory— explicitly of the instinctive 
pride of a child, implicitly of the 
nature of all thai is good in human 
|>i ide at any age. 


The other is a much more flam 
boyant though no less discerning 
story of a Avonderful, funny, andljiosi 
aAvful old Avoman, once a camp fol 
loAver of Garibaldi's army, and a 
young soldier she picks up on a train, ng 
Magnificent bravura. >ral 

NeAv Directions, $3.75 [ion 




If our new head of ICA (Interna- 
tional Co-operation Administration) 
has any doubts about hoAV to over- 
haul his department, it isn't for lack 
of criticism or because he hasn't had 
all iis previous errors carefully and! 
vehemently pointed out to him. Two 
angry books have been published in 
recent Aveeks. 

A Nation of Sheep, by William J. 

One of the coauthors of The Ugly 
American here writes a reportorial 
criticism of our foreign-aid policies 
based on his oAvn experiences— six 
years as special assistant to the com- 
mander of all U. S. forces in the 
Pacific and tAventy-six "extended" 
trips to all the* Asiatic-Pacific world. 
His book concentrates on truly hair- 
raising accounts of our mistakes and 
misinformation in Laos, Thailand, 
Formosa, Korea; of "The Boomerang 
in the Foreign Student Program"; 
and he sums up his general indigna- 
tion in a revealing chapter called 
"Government by Misinformation." 
He is not Avithout hope if Ave Avill 
stop being "a nation of sheep" and 
by every means at our disposal- 
classes on foreign affairs, careful 
reading of good ncAvspajjers, letters, 
and questions to Congressmen, the 
President, and other responsible 
government officials— keep ourselves 
informed of Avhat actually is happen- 
ing. He makes it very clear that it's 
up to us. His oAvn book Avould be 
more helpful if it included even the 
simplest of maps of these troubled 
areas, but it is a mine of revealing 
documentation even Avithout. 

Norton, $3.75 

Foreign Aid: Our Tragic Experi- 
ment, by Thomas S. Loeber. 

Mr. Loel)er has worked as a ma- 
laiia specialist since 1950 in ICA in 
Indonesia— in Sumatra, Java, liali, 
parts of the Lesser Sunda and Spice 
Islands, and Celebes. Later he Aveni 



io Jordan, where he worked until 
^960. His stories, therefore, are of 
hose regions, and shocking they 
)ften are, though he, unlike Mr. 
^ederer, occasionally has an inspir- 
ng incident to report. But the gen- 
•ral pattern is frighteningly repeti- 
ious. In his view we made a grievous 
nistake when the administration of 
oreign aid was taken over by the 
itate Department: 

Out of American self-interest, the 
State Department took over the for- 
eign-aid program and converted it 
into an instrument for the preserva- 
tion of the status quo. ... It is the 
imperialism of enforced status quo, or 
at best, of the mandatory wait and 
see. In the pursuit of self-interest and 
survival, we have slipped into one of 
the oldest of patterns with the very 
newest of political ideas as the means. 

He intends that these words and 
^thers should anger his reader. He 
concludes much as Mr. Ledercr does, 

We should use anger intelligently. 
If the strangle-hold of foreign-aid 
bureaucrats is to be broken, public 
opinion must become as well organ- 
ized as are those bureaucrats them- 
selves. They are smug and secure in 
their rich empire. It will take no 
small effort to dislodge them. A 
complacent people will not do so. 

In a postscript he outlines nine 
specific steps which should be taken 
to change the administration of 
foreign aid (in which he firmly be- 
lieves). They are in part based on an 
MIT study on foreign aid (prepared 
at the Senate's request) which, with 
these two books, should be required 
reading for us all. Norton, |3.50 

Communication Among Social Bees, 

by Martin Lindauer. 

Mr. Lindauer starts by explaining 
briefly the work that Professor Karl 
von Frisch has done over the last 
fifteen years studying the ways in 
which bees communicate. For in- 
stance, the foragers, by round dances 
or tail-wagging dances, indicate to 
the rest of the hive the distance and 
direction and suitability of swarm- 
ing sites. This was all most extraordi- 
nary news to me and when he further 
explains that human beings who 
have studied this language can tell 
with exactitude where the bees will 
swarm, I read on with fascination. 

He describes an experiment and con- 

However, there is no better proof 
for the correctness of the interpreta- 
tion of the dance of the bees, as it has 
been given by Professor von Frisch, 
and that we correctly understand the 
language of the bees, than the experi- 
ment just described. The nesting 
place was completely unknown to us 
beforehand, for the scouting bees had 
chosen it themselves. We were able 
only to observe the dancing bees in 
the swarm and to decide from their 
behavior the location of what they 
had found. We did not follow the 
swarm as it moved into its new dwell- 
ing: we were there at the future 
nesting place hours before its arrival. 

Dr. Lindauer has spent years ex- 
perimenting with and studying bees 
of all kinds and countries and has 
discovered "high levels of accom- 
plishment in insect sensory organs." 
His experiments are here most clearly 
and lucidly explained and illustrated 
with charts and photographs. A won- 
derftdly interesting book even to the 
most unscientific reader. 

Harvard, $4.75 


For August 

Season of Mists by Honor Tracy 
will be published by Random House. 

J. D. Salinger's first book since the 
1951 publication of The Catcher in 
the Rye will come from Little, 
Brown late in the month. It is called 
Franny and Zooey and will include 
the two long short stories which ap- 
peared in The New Yorker in 1955 
and 1957, with a thousand-word in- 
troduction by the author. 

For Fall 

Houghton Mifflin announces a 
new novel by Carson McCullers, 
Clock Without Hands. 

Atheneum will publish Virgilia 
Peterson's autobiography, A Matter 
of Life and Death. 

The author of A Separate Peace, 
John Knowles, has delivered his new 
novel. Morning at Antibes, to Mac- 
millan for fall publication. 

Clare Boothe Luce has a novel 
called The Shark Rock Mission on 
Atheneum's September list. 

Little, Brown announces the fall 
publication of a biography of Clark 
Gable by Jean Garceau, his private 
secretary for twenty-one years. 



Special Supple 


authoritative, lucid, and timely dis- 
cussions of the issues in American 
psychiatry in 1961. 



Plus all regular contents 



the Navy 

porpoises and sonar 

By Winthrop N. Kellogg 

The amazing and amusing story of 9 
years' research into the echo-ranging 
system with which the porpoise detects 
distant objects, avoids invisible obsta- 
cles and even selects its menu by sound 
. . . how its brain, in some ways more 
complex than man's, has been "drafted" 
to help the Navy improve sonar gear. 

Illus. $4.50 

At bookstores 

iVl LJ O 1 Ci m the round 



Young intellectuals have put Wagner 
aside — for good reasons — but a new 
album of one great opera reminds us 
of his emotional power. 

The one opera that represents the 
nineteenth century is Wagner's 
Tristan iind Isolde, and it still holds 
its own although it means far less to 
the younger generation than it used 
to. Young intellectuals these days 
tend to take Wagner on sufferance, 
^vhereas only thirty years ago he was 
still a vital force. Part of the reason, 
though by no means the major part, 
lies in the scarcity of singers and the 
sudden lapse in the ^\■agner tradi- 
tion. Those who hear Tristan as 
sung by the present crop of helden- 
tenors and dramatic sopranos have 
no idea of the way the opera really 
can sound. One has to go back to the 

1930s, when singers like Melchior, 
Schorr, Flagstad, Leider, Branzell, 
and Rethberg, in their full glory, 
were giving us unforgettable Wagner 
performances. Now, it may be a 
truism that every age thinks the 
previous age was better; but when 
it comes to ^Vaguer singing we at 
least are on firm ground. The previ- 
ous age ions better, as a quick look 
at the casts of any opera house in 
the world will demonstrate. 

But more than the lack of ade- 
quate performance, the general lack 
of interest in Wagner on the part of 
the intellectuals stems from today's 
prevailing musical philosophy. By 
far the biggest musical influence of 
the post-AVorld War II scene has 
been Anton Webern, who stands for 
everything that Wagner was not. Or, 
to put it another way, Wagner is 
the macrocosmos, Webern the micro- 
cosmos. The Wagner operas run for 
hours and hours (for eternity, snort 



the smart young people today); thelsK 
Webern pieces are enormously con 
centrated and elliptical. It is part oi 
the age; the trend ever since tht 
1920s has been toward anti-romanti 
cism; toward condensation, intel 
lectualization, and dodecaphonism 
(Indeed, the beginnings of the trcndjco 
can be discerned in Wagner's own st( 
lifetime, when the disenchanted 
Nict/sche cast the Wagner operas 
from the pale, and loudly upheld 
Carmen as the ideal.) 

It could be that the anti-Wagner- 
ians are perfectly correct in their 
basic criticisms. Wagner's theories 
never did work out as he intended; 
and he was the world's worst writer; 
and his librettos are static; and 
his music can be repetitious; and his 
eternal chromatic slitherings, his 
avoidance of a fixed tonality, can be 
irritating. That said, one puts on 
the records of Tristan, or Meister- 
singer, or W alkiir e—dind. is promptly 
lost in Wagner's world. He was too 
powerful a creator and his music is 
too strong. Intellectually one might 
agree with all that the anti-Wagner-: 
ians say. But emotionally one is 
swept away. One ignores his muzzy 
philosophy and is simply drowned in 
the ocean of integrated sound that 
"W^agner has created. He may be less 
popular than he used to be, but he 
will always be with us. And, given 
the proper singers, there well coidd 
be a renaissance. 

The Sixth Disc 

The proper singers are certainly 
not contained in the new album of 
Tristan und Isolde. George Solti 
leads the Vienna Philharmonic, with 
a cast consisting of Birgit Nilsson 
and Fritz Uhl in the title roles, 
Regina Resnik (Brangaene), Tom 
Krause (Kinvenal), and Arnold van 
Mill (Marke). The five discs of the 
opera are accompanied by a sixth 
disc which contains the story of the 
way the engineers and musical staff 
prepared the opera (London A 450(5, 
mono; OSA 1502, stereo). That 
bonus disc in some ways is the great- 
est sales pitch since the Dutch talked 
the Indians out of Manhattan Island. 

As narrated by John Culshaw, it 
assumes that this is the greatest stereo 
recording in history. It also comes 
right out and slates that because 
stereo is a new art form, the music 
lias to be a(iaj)icd for stereo, and not 

.tereo to the music. The booklet of 
\:>rogram notes also says as much. 

"We were very unhappy about the 
isual stage setting for Act I," writes 
|Vfr. Culshaw, the recording director. 
'. . . Always ungainly and slightly 
preposterous on the stage, this be- 
omes hopelessly ambiguous in 

t tereo; and so we sketched a different 
pproach, which involved swinging 

he whole imagined setting by about 
it'orty-five degrees, so that the ship is 

liagonally across the stage, with 
ilsolde's cabin occupying the space 
from extreme (audience) left to 
ibout center, and the stern of the 
ship slightly back on the extreme 
right. Whether better or not as a 

tage setting, this certainly makes 
>tereo sense. . . . The idea farthest 
from our minds was to copy, on 
records, what is heard in the average 
opera house; instead, we tried to en- 
sure that the intense emotional ex- 
DPrience of Tristan itnd Isolde 
sHfuld survive the transfer to a 
mtdium unknown to its composer, 
and use to the full whatever ad- 
vantage that different medium could 


Realism by Stereo 

Well, this is honest. It also out- 
lines a new aesthetic that can, and 
will, be argued for a long time to 
come. Which is more important: the 
music or the recording engineers? 
the score or the new electronic 

But, curiously enough, despite all 
this to-do, the new Tristan album is 
not as revolutionary-sounding as 
might be imagined. It does have its 
moments of unusual realism, though 
no more than other good stereo 
recordings from major companies 
(the recent Madama Butterfly from 
Capitol is a good example). Mr. 
Culshaw and his workers have been 
striving for the illusion of depth and 
stage placement. Thus at the very 
opening of the opera, the voice of 
the steersman is heard from a dis- 
tance. Throughout the act, Isolde's 
voice comes from the left. In the 
Liebestod she is well centered. But 
that is no more or no less than any 
good stereo recording should offer. 

On the other hand, there are sug- 
gestions that the engineers have been 
overzealous. Sometimes the singers 
come well over the orchestra, and at 
other times the orchestra blots them 

Three superb new additions to Angelas 


For those who treasure the great perform- 
ances of the past. Angel presents another 
group in its series of faithful restorations. 
In technical clarity and fidelity, these 
recordings far, far surpass the originals. In 
spirit, they are the originals, for they bring 
you the great artists of another era, living, 
and singing and playing again. As Martin 
Mayer said in Esquire, "In every case, the 
spirit of the original inspired performance 
has been retained . . . these Angel reissues 
are a genuine miracle." 

Each recording is accompanied by a fascinat' 
ing booklet about the work, the performance 
and the artist. These reissues are, of course, 
available only in monophonic versions. 

THE YOUNG CARUSO Were it not for Caruso's original recordings, some of 
which are contained in this album, millions of music lovers all over the world 
would never have heard the power and majesty of his voice. Today, the great 
recordings made by Caruso when he was in his late twenties and early thirties 
(1902-04) have been brought as close to modern fidelity standards as possible. 
You can thrill to the great tenor in this album which includes Questa o quella 
from Rigoletto, Celeste Aida, and his Vesti la giubba from Pagliacci — the per- 
formance which won the young Caruso his Metropolitan Opera contract. 

Angel COLH 119. 


THE VERDI REQUIEM with four of the century's greatest singers. This recording 
recreates an historic occasion in the Rome Opera House . . . the classic 1939 
performance of the Verdi Requiem with Maria Caniglia, soprano, Ebe Stignani, 
mezzo-soprano, Beniamino Gigli, tenor, and Ezio Pinza, bass. Conducted by 
Tullio Serafin with the orchestra and chorus of the Rome Opera House. 
Angel GRB 4002 (2 disk set). 

FURTWANGLER conducts the Beethoven Ninth 

in what has been called "an immensely purposeful, 
intensely heroic" interpretation. Originally recorded 
at the re-opening of the Bayreuth Festival in 1951, 
this performance brought together Elisabeth 
Schwarzkopf, Elisabeth Hongen, Hans Hopf and 
Otto Edelmann, with the Bayreuth Festival Orches- 
tra and Chorus. In its new re-issue. Angel has uti- 
lized the amazing technical advances of the past 
decade to bring you even greater brilliance and 
beauty. Angel GRB 4003 (2 disk set). 

At your Angel Dealer's now 



-^ magazine 


An exclusive report on the tough 
and zealous men locked in a power 
struggle inside the Pentagon. 

By Joseph Kraft 


The former director of England's 
National Gallery tackles the thorn- 
iest of all the thorny controversies 
that keep today's art world in a 

By Sir Kenneth Clark 


A businessman looks at the 
abuses that pervert the purpose of 
our unemployment-insurance sys- 

By Seth Levine 


How patronage politicians may 
take a bite out of your estate 
. . . quite legally. 

By Murray Toigh Bloom 

ALSO: Seven Poems by Boris 
Pasternak, lransl(il<'<l hy Hohvrl 
Lowell; T\ii^ Ain«'ri<;ni Talciil for 
Offending Pcopb-. hy D. 11. BatUvr 


out. Certainly Nilsson's voice in her 
Tristan iind Isolde appearances last 
season at the Metropolitan Opera 
sounded fuller and more colorful 
than it does on these discs. In all 
fairness, this new Tristan recording 
has some exciting moments of sheer 
audio. But it is less of a piece than 
its competitor, the old Flagstad- 
Schock-Furtwangler performance re- 
issued on five Angel discs. 

Getting to the London perform- 
ance itself (and high time, too), it is 
on the whole disappointing. Nilsson 
is by far the best singer in the cast, 
even if she is not in particularly good 
voice. She sounds tired, and there is 
at times a feeling of strain not nor- 
mally associated with her work. She 
is the greatest living Wagnerian 
soprano, and when she lets loose, 
the results can be thrilling. Here, 
though, she is not consistently heard 
at her best. 

Newcomer from Bayreuth 

Fritz Uhl, the Tristan, will be a 
new name to most Americans. He 
is thirty-three years old, a Bayreuth 
regular, and will make his American 
debut in San Francisco this fall. His 
voice does have the virtue of fresh- 
ness, and he is an intelligent mu- 
sician. Nature has not given him a 
big voice, however, and his singing 
is more lyric than heroic. Resnik 
and Krause are something below 
routine. Resnik has a bad waver and 
a severely limited top range. She is 
not old, but sings with the voice of 
an old singer. Krause is rough-sound- 
ing and not always on pitch. The 
role of King Marke, as sung by van 
Mill, is one of the better things in 
the nlbum. He has a strong, clear 
voice, and he sings ^\•ith dig;iiiiy. 

If not for Solti, the album might 
be a disaster. Fortunalch he is one 
of the best W^agner conductors 
around, \\\i\\ a fine sense of pace and 
a knowledge of style. He is one of 
the few who can take a slow tempo 
and keep it from falling apart. He 
has firmness, strength, and a belief 
in what he is doing, plus the Icch- 
ni(]ue to cany his ideas through. As 
he here has a great orchestra at his 
disjjosal, thai pari of the oj)era (omcs 
ihrough brilliantly. And is ihcic not 
a slifJiig scgMicnl of opinion that 
hf)l(is the orf hcstral element to be by 
fat the most important factor in the 
W'agiH I ojjcias? 


Eric Larrabee 



On the jacket cover of We Insis 
three young Southern Negroes, si 
ins at a lunch counter, stare back ovc 
their shoulders at the camera, the 
eyes defiant and blank with the lon< 
learned expectation of being hurt. 
is the mood of the album, and of Ma 
Roach's and Oscar Brown, Jr.'s "Free 
dom Now Suite." Stirred by the grov 
ing Negro intransigence in the Soutj 
and increasing independence in Africr 
Negro jazz musicians have begun ti 
emerge from their indifference to pol, 
tics, and this record is one of the results 

It recalls slavery, recalls Africa. I 
says that the Negro, in rage and anger 
will no longer wait patiently for free 
dom someday, but wants it now. Thes« 
'are themes that no Negro musiciar 
can take up without a sense of deef 
personal involvement, and every nou 
in the "Freedom Now Suite" is im 
printed with the intensity of the players 
feeling. One hesitates to criticize them 
therefore, since criticism of the music 
is bound to be interpreted as criticism 
of the emotions behind it; but I will 
have to risk that, because I feel thai 
something is seriously going wrong here 

At one point in a section called "All 
Africa," Miss Abbey Lincoln, a supper- 
club singer who has turned more seri- 
ously to jazz, finds herself chanting the 
names of various African tribes, "Bantu 
. . . Zulu . . . Watusi . . . Ashanti," but 
she sings them without any real sense 
of their meaning. VVe are not in Africa, 
we are back in the 1930s; and this is 
the Whitmancsque roll call of the rivers 
from Pare Lorentz's film, or the em- 
barrassing fatix-naif rhetoric—". . . and 
that's what Abe Lincoln said! . . ." of 
"Ballad for Americans." ' 

Miss Lincoln, especially in "Triptych." 
makes a sophisticated attempt to simu- 
late savagery, but it will not do. It is 
an effort to whip up an emotional state 
of mind which is not naturally hers, 
much as she may wish to believe that 
it is. No one can deny the right of 
American Negroes now, after so main 
years of near-ohliviousncss to Africa, to 
cultivate their sense of Africanism.. But 
they will do themselves a great disservice 
if they begin to treat it as a myth, as a 
rituaii/ed background to their own no- 
bility and dignity, and the outcome 
will l)e not art but propaganda. 

We InsistI "Freedom Noiu Suite," by 
.Max Roach and Oscar Brown, jr., with 
Abljcy Lincoln, Coleman Hawkins, and 
Olaiunji. C:aii(li(l (stereo) 9002. 









l*=t;'aB>'rrf' ■ 

:^^ •^' 

/laking science feel at home in California 

On the Palos Verdes peninsula, in Southern California, Gen Tel is contributing to the 
development of "the perfect place to think." 

Conceived to serve the growth of science on the West Coast, Palos Verdes Research 
Park will be one of the nation's first large-scale developments planned and zoned 
exclusively for research and development. This new community of homes, recrea- 
tional and research facilities will occupy rolling slopes that face the Pacific. 

To provide this campus-like science center with the most modern communications, 
Gen Tel is now at work installing a completely integrated telephone system. 

Palos Verdes is but one example of how Gen Tei's Industrial Development Department 
helps to foster growth in Southern California by aiding large and small companies 
to locate in an ideal research climate. 

It is another example of how Gen Tel works as a "partner in progress" throughout the 
31 states it serves. 

General Telephone & Electronics Corporation, 730 Third Avenue, New York 17. 


Por details on industrial 

and research sites in 

Southern California, write 

Industrial Development 

Department, General 

Telephone Co. of Calif., 

Santa Monica, Cai f. 


White Label 



Famed are the clans of Scotland 
. . . their colorful tartans worn in 
glory through the centuries. 
Famous, too, is Dewar's White 
Label quality, with its genuine 
Scotch flavor. Forever and 
always a v/ee bit o' Scotland 
in its distinctive bottle! 

Available in ffuart. fifth, tf-nth • ilf pint 
and minialu:' -in staU:, ■i.\.<-a /al. 

SET OF 4 OOIOR PRINTS OF CLANS MacLaine, MacLeod, Wallace and Highlander, shown In au' 
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Uepl. ^3, Schenley Import Co., 350 Filth Avenue, New York 1, New York (D86.8 Proof Blended Sto: 

AUGUST 1961 SI XT- ' ^^ 








JUL ?. ft 1QS4 


ft /\ « ^ /., 



Adiai E. Stevenson 


Joseph Kraft 

. ^'- -..ji 


Sir Kenneth Clark 


Russell Lynes 

:.rf Scott"! 


Founding of The Aninicon Medunl lsso( ia(ion~one of n series 
of origindl oil fyaintings (oinniissioned by Fnrke-Davis. 


On May 7, 1847, some 250 physicians Ironi 22 states- 
representing 10 nieclical societies and 28 colleges- 
met among the nuisemn exhibits ol The Academy ol 
Natural Sciences ol Philadelphia and formed Ihe 
American Medical Asscxiation. The first j)resident, 
Dr. Nathaniel (Chapman, was welcomed to ollice by 
the chairman, Dr. Jonathan Knight. 

This first convention pledged the lledgliiig organi- 
zation tcj principles to which it has held ever since: 
insistence npon continuing imjjiovemcnts in the 
cjuality o[ nieditai (ate and ol medic .d echuah'oii, 

and upon development ol a Cc:)de of Ethics which 
benefits both patient and physician. Though some 
of its advances have not been easily won, the AMA 
has come to be recc:)gnized as one of the world's 
impoi taut medical organizations. 

Parke-Davis, which was (ounded as a maiuifacturer 
ol better medic ines just 19 years later, in 18{)("), salutes 
The American Medical Association as that organi- 
zation continues to build uj)on the firm (oundatiou 
of j)rofessional and j)ublic service envisioned by its 
lounders IM years ago. 



I'liiiire) s III licllci iiic(}i( iiics 



lew for you— a more useful telephone number! 




already have a telephone 
' this. If you don't, here's 

ihree digits are your Area 

3y tell the telephone system 

of the country you live in. 

three digits designate your 

telephone office, and the last 

/oint your particular phone. 

ar phone number. Unique. 

ler like it anywhere. 

ew kind of number helps 

others reach you— and helps you reach 
others— faster. 

Area Codes here new— 
All-Number Calling on the rise 

Today the majority of our cus- 
tomers already dial their Long Dis- 
tance calls directly by means of Area 
Codes. Eventually everyone will be 
able to. Until then, if you call through 
the Operator, you can save time by 
giving her the Area Code of the tele- 
phone you are calling when it is dif- 
ferent from yours. 

And already, in many parts of the 
country, letters have been replaced by 
numerals in telephone numbers. Be- 
fore this change, we were running out 
of usable telephone numbers contain- 
ing letters, while phones were steadily 
increasing. All-Number Calling, how- 
ever, will give us enough numbers to 
meet our needs into the next century. 

Telephone progress like this benefits 
everyone. Your new personal tele- 
phone number is another step in our 
effort to anticipate the needs of a 
growing America. 


All-Number Calling may permit you 
to use simple, tiny number-buttons 
on portable phones of the future. 


Chairman of the Executive 
Committee: cass canfield 

Chairman of the Board: 




Executive Vice President: 


Vice Presidents: 




Treasurer: Louis f. haynie 





vol. 223, NO. 1335 
AUGUST 1961 



Editor in Chief: JOHN fischer 

Managing Editor: russell lynes 

Publisher: JOHN JAY hughes 







Contributing Editor: 


Editorial Secretary: rose daly 
Editorial Assistant: 




247 Park Ave., New York 17, N. Y. 

Telephone YUkon 6-3344 

Production Manager: kim smith 

49 East 33rd St., New York 16, N. Y. 
Telephone MUrray Hill 3-1900 


© 1961 by Harper & Brothers. 

All rights, including translation into 

other languages, reserved by the 

Publisher in the United States, Great 

Britain, Mexico, and all countries 

participating in the Universal 

Copyright Convention, the International 

Copyright Convention, and the 

Pan-American Copyright Convention. 

Published monthly by Harper & Brothers, 

49 East 33rd St., New York 16, N. Y. 

Composed and printed in the U.S.A. 

by union labor by the Williams Press. 

99-129 North Broadway, Albany, N. Y. 

.Second class postajiC paid 

at Albany, N. Y. and New York, N. Y. 

SUBSCRIPTION RATES: 60(; per copy; 

$6.00 one year; $11.00 two years; 

$15.00 three years. Foreign postage — 

except Canada and Pan America — 

$1.50 per year additional. 


advance notice, and old address :is 

well as new, are nccessnry. 

Address all correspondence rel.ilinn 

to subscriptions to: Suhhcriptlon Dcpt.. 

49 East 33rd St., New York 16, N. V. 

21 America Under Pressure, Adhii E. Stevenson 

25 How Not to Build a Ball Park, Allan Temko 

29 Your Unknown Heirs, Murray Teigli Bloom 

34 Robinson Crusoe in Florida, Ja)i de Hortog 

41 McNamara and His Enemies, Joseph Kraft 

49 How to Play the Unemployment-insurance Game, 

Seth Levine 

63 Our National Talent for Offending People, 

D. H. Radler 

71 A Matter of Motive, Johy^ D. Rosenberg 
74 Art and Society, Kenneth Clark 


54 The Man Who Doubted, Jack Cope 


58 A Psychiatrist's Song, Hilary Corke 
11 Voyage, Samuel Menashe 


6 Letters 

1 1 The Editor's Easy Chair— yigoslavia's flirtation 
WITH free ENTERPRISE, John Fischer 

16 After Hours— clltlre-struck canada, Russell Lynes 

83 Public & Personal— THE good old simmertime, 

William S. White 

86 The New Books, Stanley Kunitz 

91 Books in lirief, Kaiherine Gauss Jackson 

94 Music in the Round, Discus 

95 Jazz Notes, Eric Larrabee 

cover by charles goslin; pho i ()(,r \i'i i : hi rt glinn 




IN THE NEXT TWO PAGES you will find 
fifty-four books listed, and all together 
the list provides a good chance to check 
up on some bad reading habits you may have been 
unconsciously acquiring. Perhaps you have been allow- 
ing the sheer busyness of your life to keep you from 
reading the books you have been anxious not to 
miss. Why not arrange — at the moment you decide 
you want them — to have these particular books deliv- 
ered to you infallibly? If they are actually in your home, 
constantly before your eyes, reminding you of your good 
intentions, soon or late you will surely find time to 
read them. This certain insurance against missing the 
particular books you are anxious to read has always 
been the prime advantage of membership in the 
Book-of-the-Month Club. 

The Limited Trial Membership 

you will find suggested and described in the next two pages 
will demonstrate definitely whether — and to what extent — 
this sensible system can be effectual in your own busy life. 

jBlvOiAf SE HEIvE... for books you may 

A\i> nil. 


STONE. (Retail 
price $5.95) 

454. THE LAST 


BART. (Retail 
price $4.95) 

457. RING OF 

WELL. Illustrated 
(Retail price $5) 

451. A BURNT- 


(Retail price 

186. HAWAII by 


NER. (Retail price 

rVoliles i 



(Retail price $6) 


STATLER. Illus- 
trated. (Retail 
price $6.50) 



AMORY. Illustrat- 
ed. (Retail price 

104. ADVISE 


(Retail price 




(Retail ptfice 



lustrated. (Retail 
price $5.95) 



MENT by C. P. 
SNOW. (Retail 
price $2.50) 

459. RESIST- 

CAMUS. (Retail 
price $4) 






... if you agree to buy three additional books during the next year at 
the members'prices, which average20%lessthan regular retail prices 

Prairie Years AND 
The War Years 

BURG. 1 voi.edn. 
(Ret. price $7.50) 

158. GOREN'S 

H. GOREN. (Re- 
tail price $4.95) 

141. THE GATH- 

W I N S T <■) N S . 
1 of The Second 
World War. (Re- 
tail price $6.50) 

142. THEIR 

W I N S I rj N S . 

li. (Retail price 

TATIONS. 13th 
edition. (Retail 
price $10) 


Winsioii t^ 


Ill (Retail price 

405. DOCTOR 



Illustrated. (Re- 
tail price $3.95) 





IV. (detail price 


157. THE POPU- 


BEIN, M.D. Illus- 
trated. (Retail 
price $4.95) 


413. THE GOOD 


LORD. Illustrated 
(Retail price 




V. (Retail price 



VI. (Rcuil price 

RIAGE: lis Physi- 
ology and Tech- 
nique by TH. H. 

M.D. Illustrated 
(Ret. price $7.50) 


.)lcl Order 


A K TH n R M . 
Vol. I of 7/jt' /!«* 

of Roosevelt. (Re- 
tail price $6.95) 

134. THE COM- 

vols. (Retail price 

Each voL $1 


116. THE COM- 

JR. Vol. II, (Re- 
tail price $6.95) 

452. CHIN 


price $4.50) 

463. THE EDGI 


(Retail price $5i 

466. R U S S I 

NAN. (Retail prit i 

434. THE DEVIl 

(Retail prit 

«^-jM»********* ^ 3 

138. REMEl 


2 vols. (Retil 
price $15) 
Each vol. 


420. THE PO 

Vol. III. (Rei 
price $6.95) 


lave missed through oversight or overbusyness 







431. THE RISE AND 433. TIMES THREE ^j' 435. TO KILL A 


REICH by WILLIAM L. (Retail price $5) harper lee. (Retail 

SHiRER. (Retail price price $3.95) 



waltari. (Retail 
price $4.95) 

(>.>ri) Fivi "yS 

' N 

■** .• 



Illustrated. (Re- 
tail price $4.95) 

ecu M J' 
■ (HVfK 

HERSEY. (Retail 
price $4) 

161. THE NEW 
ING by IRMA s. 
ER. Illustrated 
(Ret. price $4.95) 



Illustrated. (Re- 
tail price $3.75) 



(Retail price 

198. THE LEOP- 

(Retail price 

418. THOMAS 

(Retail price 


by c. P. SNOW 
(Retail price 

114. WHAT WE 



(Ret. price $3.95) 

164. WHEN WE 



Both vols, for $1 

CORNER by A. A. 

MILNE. Illustrated 


Both vols, for $1 

Just for self-appraisal, check those you fully in- 
tended to read . . . you will surely find important 
current books you have been eager not to miss . . . 
earlier good books you have long promised yourself 
to read . . . valuable sets you may have v\^anted for 
your library . . and practical books you may need 
in your home or office. 


THE PURPOSE of this suggested trial 
membership is to demonstrate two 
things by your own experience: first, 
that you can really keep yourself from 
missing, through oversight or over- 
busyness, books you fully intend to 
read; second, the advantages of the 
Club's unique Book-Dividend system, 
through which members regularly re- 
ceive valuable library volumes— either 
completely without charge or at a small 
fraction of their price— simply by buy- 
ing books they would buy anyway. The 
offer described here really represents 
"advance" Book-Dividends earned by 
the purchase of the three books you 
engage to buy later. 

5Jc The three books you choose 

from those pictured on these pages 
will be sent to you immediately, and 
you will be billed one dollar for each 
volume (plus a small charge for post- 
age). For the three additional books 

you agree to buy you will pay, on the 
average, 20% less than the regular 
retail prices. (For example, the mem- 
bers' price for Jbe Rise and 7a\\ of the 
Jhird Reich, which retails for $10, is 
only $5.95— a saving in this case of 
over 40%.) 

^ You have a wide choice always 

—over 200 Selections and alternates 
will be made available to Club mem- 
bers during the year. 

5Jc: If you continue after buying the 
three books called for in this trial 
membership, with every second Club 
choice you buy you will receive, with- 
out charge, a valuable Book-Dividend 
averaging more than $7 in retail value. 
Since the inauguration of this profit- 
sharing plan, $255,000,000 worth of 
books (retail value) has been earned 
and received by Club members as 




345 Hudson Street, New York 14, N. Y. 

Please enroll me as a member of the Book-of-the-Month Clubt and send the 
three books whose numbers I have indicated in boxes below, billing me $3.00 
(plus postage). I agree to purchase at least three additional monthly Selections 
— or alternates — during the first year I am a member. I have the right to cancel 
my membership any time after buying three Club choices (in addition to those 
included in this introductory offer) . The price will never be more than the pub- 
lisher's price, and frequently less. After my third purchase, if I continue. I am 
to receive a Book-Dividend t with every second Selection — or alternate — I buy. 
(A small charge is added to cover postage and mailing expenses.) please note: 
A Double Selection — or a set of books offered to members at a special combined 
price — is counted as a siyigle book in reckoning Book-Dividend credit and in 
fulfilling the membership obligation to buy three Club choices. 


i Trademark Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. and in Canada 


The Coming Bust in 
the Building Boom 

To THE Editors: 

I don't know Daniel M. Friedenberg 
but I've been a real estate operator and 
builder for 50 years, 47 of which have 
been right here in San Francisco. Fve 
built 266 commercial buildings in my 
day. In fact, I believe that I've built 
more commercial buildings in San Fran- 
cisco than anyone else so I should be a 
bit familiar with the business. . . . Mr. 
Friedenl^erg's article, "The Coming Bust 
in the Real Estate Boom" [June], is 
right oiu of this world and your com- 
pany has done a great service to the 
investing public by printing it. 

Louis R. LuRiE 
San Francisco, Calif. 

Mr. Friedenberg's article should be re- 
quired reading for students of architec- 
ture and city planning in our univer- 
sities. It is a sobering reminder of the 
distance between the lUopias taught 
under the heading of city planning and 
the reality as practiced "in the field." 

Jan Reiner, Architect 
St. Petersburg, Fla. 

We can only surmise that Mr. Fried- 
enberg would prefer his offices in an old- 
fashioned loft rather than in a modern 
building. He does not, it appears, favor 
such contemporary advances as air-con- 
ditioning, electronic elevators, metal 
facades and tower construction. We, as 
builders, find these are what appeal to 

We take serious issue with the allega- 
tions that today's buildings are inferior. 
If this were true, would the country's 
blue-chip corporations demand that their 
names \)e attached to the skyscrapers 
being l)uilt in vast preponderance by the 
investment builder? Does he seriously 
entertain the notion that the giants of 
American industry sign willy-nilly, some- 
how blindfolded, long-term leases? 

In (act, all buildings are fine-tooth- 
combed by a battery of experts: inspec- 
tors of New York's Department of 
liuildings; independent architects and 
engineers employed by financing institu- 
tions; the tenants themselves who hire 
consultants to conduct a nuts-and-bolts 
inspection of the space they will be 
cominiiiing themselves tcj over a jcnig 

Mr. Friedenberg ascribes hypnotic 
powers to builders and claims they have 
hired "Madison Avenue publicists to 
persuade tenants that they need enor- 
mous floors." As builders of many of 
New York's largest office buildings, we 
must point out that the demand for 
entire floors came from large corpora- 
tions in the interest of their efficiency. 
Heretofore, most tenants took only parts 
of floors. 

He accuses the Real Estate Board of 
conspiring with builders to cheat tenants 
by including toilets, corridors, slop-sink 
closets, etc. in full-floor measurements. 
He omits the fact that these same 
facilities are excluded in Real Estate 
Board computations for divided floors. 
Full-floor tenants use exclusively these 
facilities and they are therefore included 
in their rentable area. 

Mr. Friedenberg states that the Pru- 
dential Insurance Company "obligingly" 
saved us from "a desperate situation" in 
building 666 Fifth Avenue. Far from be- 
ing desperate, we were building at that 
time two office buildings in California, 
four 15-story apartment buildings in 
Brooklyn, a 21-story office building in 
Cleveland, and a 20-story office building 
in Buffalo. There was in fact no sale- 
leaseback arrangement made with Pru- 
dential until 666 Fifth Avenue had been 
substantially rented. We bought the 
land and envisioned the building of 666 
a full two years before any financial 
commitment was obtained from Pru- 

We resent very much the author's alle- 
gations which do not apply in any way 
to the many reputable real estate com- 
panies, in which group we include 
Tishman Realty & Construction Co., 
Inc. Tishman Realty, investment build- 
ers since 1898, is listed on the New York 
Stock Exchange and is one of the major 
firms in the United States engaging in 
all phases of real estate operations: 
property acquisition, construction, rent- 
ing, and management. 

For over 62 years we have built apart- 
ment houses, office buildings, and shop- 
ping centers, representing a total invest- 
ment c)f close to a l)illion dollars. We 
now own and operate properties that 
include more than 7,500 residential 
rooms and 3,500,000 square feet of office 
s))ace, and are presently constructing 
five major ay)artnient buildings in four 
cities aggregating over $^0 million of 
construction cost. Compare this experi- 
ence with Mr. Friedenberg's. 

\oK\iAN Tishman, Pres. 

Tisliiii.iii R( ;ilty (ionstruction (x)., Inc. 
New York, N. Y. 

The Author Replies: 

Nothing in my article attacked "such 
contemporary advances as air-condition- 
ing." The attack was made against the 
habit of downgrading or deliberately 
cheapening building products. I praised 
certain buildings, such as the Lever 
Brothers and Seagram buildings, though 
these also are built in full contemporary 
design. It is ncjt "contemporary" but 
bogus contemporary I attacked. 

Many giants of American industry do 
not know what they get [when they con 
tract for a building] and only wake up 
later. Most of these leases are made on 
a very high level and the details are 
handled by subordinates much later. 
The "inspectors of New York's Depart 
ment of Buildings," etc., are concerned 
with what is legal, not a superior or 
inferior product, and the representatives 
of insurance companies and banks are 
only concerned that the buildings be 
constructed according to the Plans and 

Mr. Tishman is only repeating what 
the publicists are told to repeat regard- 
ing the "efficiency" of large floors. 

Mr. Tishman is explaining the ration- 
ale of why tenants occupying single 
floors pay for nonusable space, non- 
usable in the sense that the space can- 
not be employed in the direct pursuit 
of tenants' business. The outside walls 
exclusively protect full-floor tenants and 
the elevators stopping at their floors are 
for their exclusive use. Why not include 
these spaces as well, following the argu 

It would seem, according to Mr. Tish- 
man's own statement, that one factor iti] 
the financial background of 666 Fift 
Avenue was overexpansion. Of course; 
the Tishman interests bought the Ian 
years before the financial commitment 
You do not obtain financing before you 
have something to finance. 

In conclusion, I might add that the 
roar arising from my article indicates 
the old adage that the truth hurts. 

Daniel M. Friedenberg 
New York, N. Y. 

Runaway Reactor 

To THE Editors: 

Ralph E. Lapp has done an excellent' 
job in "A Small Atomic Accident" 
[June] describing the circinnstances sur- 
rounding the SL-1 nuclear excursion 
which cau.sed the tragic loss of threes 
lives at the Atomic Energy Commission's 
National Reactor Testing Station in 
Idaho. The AFL-CIO has for many yt ll^ 
been urging strong standards and regu- 
lations dealing with the ojieration of 
reactors and the use of other fissionable 
materials of less than critical mass in 
medicine, industry, agriculture, and re- 






\"A moving and brilliant Macbeth." 


"The Taming of the Shrew is as light 
as a charlotte riisse and it is played 
that way . . , Trevor Howard as the 
swaggering husband, Margaret 
Leighton as the lady ivho learns her 
Planners and Robert Stephens as the 
servant turned master, propel the 
farce along." 



Shakespeare Recording Society 

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Margaret Leighton 

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Twelfth Night, ACT I, SCENE 5 

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Alfs Well that Ends Well, ACT II, SCENE 1 

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"Thrift, thrift, Horatio!" 

Hamlet. ACT I, SCENE 2 

Six plays are now available from the Society: 

Macbeth • The Taming of the Shrew 

Othello • The Winter s Tale 

Romeo and Juliet * Measure for Measure 

Additional performances will be released on the 
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"The affair cries haste ..." 

Othello, ACT I, SCENE 3 

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Please enroll me as a member of the Shakespeare Recording Society, Inc., and 
send me the album checked as my free gift: □ Macbeth □ The Taming of the Shrew 
Also send me, as a gift, the portrait of Shakespeare by Lionel Dillon. 

Whether I choose stereophonic or monaural albums, 
I will pay 58.90 for each two-record album; SI 2.90 
for three-record albums— plus a small charge for 
postage and handling. I may order as many sets of 
a particular play as I wish at these special prices. 
Additional Shakespeare works— released on an, aver- 
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in advance. I may reject recordings simply by re- 

turning the form provided. 

I agree to buy four albums ( including my initial 
order ) the first year I am a member, and am free 
to cancel any time thereafter. If I continue as a 
member, I shall receive with my ftfth purchase, and 
with every four purchases thereafter, a free Caedmon 
spoken-word recording or set. ( I understand that 
my free gift album does not constitute a purchase. ) 

In addition to my free album, send me, as my 
initial membership selection, the ' album or 
albums checked: 

□ Macbeth, with Anthony Quayle, Gwen Ffrangcon 
Davies and Stanley Holloway. (Two-record album, 

Q The Taming of the Shrew, with Trevor Howard 
and Margaret Leighton. (Two-record album, S8.90) 

□ Othello, with Frank Silvera, Cyril Cusack, Celia 
Johnson and Anna Massey, (Three-record album, 

□ The Winter's Tale, with Sir John Gielgud and 
Dame Peggy Ashcroft. (Three-record album, 

Q Romeo and Juliet, with Claire Bloom, Albert 
Finney and E>ame Edith Evans. ( Three-record al- 
bum, S 12.90) 

□ Measure for Measure, with Sir John Gielgud, 
Margaret Leighton and Sir Ralph Richardson. 
(Three-record album, $12.90) 

Until further notice, send records in: 

D Monaural (can be played on any 3.^/^ RPM 
phonograph ) 

D Stereo ( can be played only on stereophonic 

Save extra money! □ Check here if you are 
including payment for your initial order now— 
saving the Society billing expense— and we will pay 
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(New York City residents, please add 3^? sales tax) 





Zone State 


The Shakespeare Recording Society, Inc., 461 Eighth Avenue, New York I, N. Y. 



search. . . . The experience of organized 
labor in the nuclear field during the 
past several years leads to these three 
general observations: 

1. An indispensable element of a 
progressive peaceful atomic program is 
confidence of workers and the general 
public that such progress can be attained 
with a minimum of risk to their health 
and safety. 

2. The attainment of such a general 
atmosphere of confidence has been 
severely hampered because of over- 
emphasis by the AEC on the promo- 
tional aspects of peaceful atomic de- 
velopment and underemphasis on sound 
and uniform safety standards and regu- 
lations and their adequate enforcement. 

3. The administrative machinery 
within the AEC for carrying out sound 
regulatory programs in the field of radia- 
tion health and safety is outstandingly 
inadequate and in need of drastic over- 

Andrew J. Biemiller 

Dir., Dept. of Legislation 

Chmn., AFL-CIO Staff Subcommittee 

on Atomic Energy & Natural Resources 

Washington, D. C. 

Fhe Author Explains: 

I would like to clarify the formal ad- 
ministrative setup at the AEC's Idaho 
station mentioned in my article. The 
.\EC has over-all responsibility for the 
station. It contracts with several pri- 
vate firms for reactor site operations, 
Combustion Engineering Inc. being the 
operating contractor for the SL-1 reactor. 
Military personnel at the SL-1 site were 
under the general supervision of Com- 
bustion Engineering Inc. The SL-1 
reactor was part of the program of 
the Army Reactors Branch of the AEC's 
Division of Reactor Development. The 
Department of Defense did not have 
responsibility for this SL-1 reactor. 
This is a rather complex relationship 
which I feel should be spelled out in 

The release of the AEC's report on 
SL-1 on June 11 as well as the thorough 
public airing of the issue by Representa- 
tive Chet Holifield (Joint Committee on 
Atomic Energy) sets forth full details of 
the SL-1 accident. As a critic of the 
.AEC, I am pleased to state that the 
Commission has acted promptly and 
candidly in making information avail- 
aljle about this unfortunate accident. 

Ralph E. Lapp 
Alexandria, Va. 

Neiv Look in Comedy 

If) TiiK Editors: 

"The Anierifan Negro's N<vv Ojincdy 
Ad" by Louis V.. Lomax [fuiH | is one ol 
the finest "textbooks" a second, uv silmol 

can hope to locate. Such an article is 
particularly useful to. me in teaching 
the second-year American literature 
course in which we attempt to present 
Huck Finn and Saroyan's The Human 
Comedy as examples of American 
humor. . . . 

Barbara Keith Gelehrter 

Thayer Academy 

Braintree, Mass. 

'^^Dear Senator' Dilemma 

To THE Editors: 

I thoroughly enjoyed Ellen Davis' 
article "Don't Write Your Congressman, 
Unless . . ." [Easy Chair, June]— so many 
good and constructive points made with 
a sense of humor and perspective. Here's 
hoping my constituents find it enlight- 

Hubert H. Humphrey 

Member of the Senate, Minnesota 

Washington, D. C. 

I do not doubt the truth of Ellen 
Davis' article. It is deplorable that so 
much of our tax money goes into attend- 
ing to the enormous quantity of mail 
sent to our Washington representatives. 
. . . But there is merit in a shcjrt letter 
to the point from an informed con- 

The Friends Committee on National 
Legislation, 245 2nd Street, Washington 
2. D. C, gets out a Washington News- 
letter which gives one accurate informa- 
tion about measures to be brought up 
in Congress or legislation concerning 
them. By subscribing at S3 a year, one 
can keep informed and write a short 
communication about ihe questions on 
which one feels strongly. I have liad my 
Representatives tell me that they value 
this sort of rapport and surely it is the 
duty of the interested citizen to speak 

Helen S. Eaton 
Duxbury, Mass. 

I found myself in accord with prac- 
tically every point Ellen Davis made. 
I am not sure, however, that the way to 
remedy the situation is to admonish 
"Don't Write. . . ." Although most of the 
letters written to the Congressman aren't 
read by him, they are read by someone 
on his staff [who] in turn, talks to 
[hiui]. It is possible to inHuence the 
Congressman through persuading a staff 
member, so it would be a shame to stop 
writing the Congressman just because he 
can't read each letter personally. 

In fact, sometimes there are not 
enough letters. We, too, go to Capitol 
Hill and our ex|)erience has been that 
there is a great deal of mail on the so- 
called 'pockctl)C)ok" issues, i)ut on other 
legislation which may have just as im- 

portant an effect there seems to be no 
constituency. Often staff members— or 
even the Congressmen themselves— will 
say to us, "We are hearing only from 
the people who feel they will be hurt by 
this legislation. We are not hearing 
from anyone who is talking for the 
public interest. If we vote for this bill 
we are going to have a hard time justi- 
fying our action to our constituents un- 
less we get some mail." 

There is also something to be said for 
the sincere letter from those with back- 
grounds less impressive than that of 
George Kennan. Writing a letter has an 
effect on the writer as well as on the 
person who receives it. Having com- 
mitted himself in writing he feels a sort 
of proprietary interest in the bill; he 
watches the paper to see how the legisla- 
tion is faring; he adds to his own knowl- 
edge in the field and his experience with 
government. If he gets a thoughtful re- 
ply to his communication, whether it is 
staff written or not, his next letter may 
show more concern, more knowledge of 
the subject. . . . 

I hope Mrs. Davis' article will be 
widely read and lead to an improved 
quality of correspondence both to and 
from Capitol Hill. 

Mrs. Robert J. Phillips, Pres. 

League of Women Voters of the U. S. 
Washington, D. C. 

Riesman Clarified 

To the Editors: 

A passage in my article, "Riesman and 
His Readers" [June], appears to have 
misinterpreted his views. In my eager- 
ness to abbreviate, I compressed into the 
final paragraph his own position on 
reducing Cold War tensions together 
with that of his few colleagues who 
espouse unilateral disarmament. He 
himself does not, as I should have made 
clear. In an article written with Michael 
Maccoby for The New Left Review, he 
distinguishes unilateral initiatives— such 
as dismantling a base, or limiting the 
rearmament of Western Germany— from 
unilateral disarmament, which he does 
not believe to be within the range of 
possibility for the United States. 

Eric Larrabee 
New York N.Y. 



Proving Twain 

To the Editors: 

".A Boston Ciirl," which appears in 
your (une issue as "For the first time 
published under the byline of Mark 
Twain," was iciciiiificci moic iliaii three 
years ago by Robert J. Lowenhcrz of 
New York University and was leprintccl 
in American Speech (Fcbruaiy iy.'J8) 

8 times more 

rural electric 

power needed 

by 1985 

During the short twenty-five years they've 
had electric power, consumer-owners of rural 
electric systems have been increasing their 
use of electricity 100% every six years. 

Independent studies show an ever-increasing 
demand for rural electric power. The desire 
for modern conveniences in the home, cou- 
pled with farm and rural industry needs for 
electricity, will multiply present rural electric 
power consumption 8 times more by 1985. 

America's Rural Electric Systems, financed 
by Rural Electrification Admin- 
istration loans, are working now 
to meet these future rural power 






g 160 




i 140 


O 120 



ri 100 




















W \ \ \ \ 


1 1 1 

— .r^-C 




35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 

Source: NRECA, Washington, D.C. 

requirements — installing bigger poles, larger 
wires, heavier transformers. This requires 
adding annual investments of 8 to 12 per cent 
of the original value of each system — dou- 
bling the investment in just ten years. 

Long-range, low-cost financing is necessary 
for rural electrics to properly serve their 
sparsely settled areas. They'll continue to sup- 
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they have repaid nearly $l'/2 billion in prin- 
cipal and interest on their $3'/2 billion loans. 



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under the title "Mark Twain on Usage." 
As proof of Mark Twain's authorship, 
Charles Neider at the end of your re- 
printing cites the article's general style 
and its inclusion of an incident which 
recurs in the Autobiography; further 
proof was discovered by Mr. Lowenher/ 
in an unpublished letter dated April ■<(), 
1890, from Howells to Mark Twain 
which refers to the article. 

Allan F. Hubbf.i.i. 

Editorial Board, American Speech^ 

New York, N. 

Mr. Neider Replies: 

Frederick Anderson, assistant editor ol 
the Mark Twain papers at Berkeley, wh( 
brought the item to my attention, als< 
"identified" it as Twain's, but did noj 
feel he had proof. My discovery of th( 
internal evidence clinched the author-i 
ship. 1 bow to Mr. Lowenherz's prioi 
publication, though American Speed 
Ibit out 56 of a total of 245 lines 
omitting precisely the nub of the inl 
ternal proof— the incident of the circuh 
driveway— and relegated the piece tl 
"Miscellany" in the back. 

Mr. Lowenherz's "proof" rested on 
letter of Howells' to Twain, which MrJ 
Lowenherz dated April 30, 1890. Thii 
may be a misprint; to my knowledge 
there is no such letter. Presumably, 
was referring to a letter of April 31 
1880, which begins: "I want to put tl 
Conversation into the next number, aril 
so I suppose you can't simultane. I r( 
turn the letter, and a proof of a Club." 
The editors of the definitive Afarj 
Twain-Howells Letters suggest this rt 
ferred to another piece— on obituai 

Charles Neidi 
New York, N. 

Spitting Image^ 

To the Editors: 

Concerning Burt Goldblatt's cover o 
the June issue, my wife and I have a 
serious bet of fifty smackers. I say it 
an infrared photo of the Battery in N 
York City. She says it is an X-ray of the 
coronary network of a bull moose altei 
a massive thrombosis. Please settle thi 

Henry L. Footi 
San Jose, Calif 

An Editor's Answer: 

I guess you'll have to pay up. Th 
])ull moose your observant wife ha 
identified is called (or will l)e) Lincoli 
Center for the Performing Arts. Thi 
however, is not its coronary network. 1 
has no heart, nor, 1 d()ul)t, ever wi 

New \ Oik, N. ' 



the editor^s 


Yugoslavia's Flirtation with 
Free Enterprise 

Part II of a Puzzled Report 
on an Ex-Satellite 

IN BELGRADE a few weeks ago the finan- 
cial director of a tobacco factory told me why 
he was so desperately eager to get to the United 

"I want to learn how you Americans sell ciga- 
rettes," he said, "and I need to learn fast. Ten 
years ago, selling was no problem in Yugoslavia. 
All the business was handled by a state mo- 
nopoly, which had a hard time turning out 
enough cigarettes to supply the stores— and not 
very good cigarettes, either. 

"Now we have a dozen competing tobacco en- 
terprises, each one trying to put out better brands 
in more attractive packages. I am advertising 
my factory's products in magazines and news- 
papers, on radio and billboards. We've even 
tried cutting prices. But unsold cigarettes are 
still piling up in our warehouse. So I have to 
find out all I can about American distribution 
methods right away." 

This man thinks he is a good Communist. Yet 
Marxist theory offers him no help with his man- 
agement problems— problems which would sound 
as familiar as "Sweet Adeline" to any American 

• In Titograd— a brand-new city slowly rising at 
the foot of the most desolate mountain range 
in Europe— the Reclame Advertising Agency is 
trying to introduce Madison Avenue to Mon- 
tenegro. It is a private (and apparently prosper- 
ous) venture, turning out signs, publicity releases, 
layouts, and copy for all comers. 

• Another small businessman— an iron molder 
who makes castings for garages and factories— 

recently paid a fine of three million dinars for 
fudging on his income tax. Apparently it caused 
him little pain, since he keeps a handsome villa 
in Belgrade, another on the Dalmatian coast, a 
pair of gardeners at each place, and two limou- 

• One Sunday morning I strolled past a Zagreb 
apartment house with an unusually thick cluster 
of TV aerials on its roof. 

"A lot of doctors live there," my companion 
explained. "They are always rich. In your coun- 
try too, I think?" 

For a supposedly Communist country, Yugo- 
slavia produces a surprising number of "rich" 
people— not big rich in Texas terms, but com- 
fortably well off by normal standards.* Among 
those I got to know are an architect, a free-lance 

* By far the richest, in terms of real income, is Tito. 
The splendor of his way of life makes Onassis look 
like a poor boy— indeed, it outshines any royal family 
left in Europe. A palace or villa always is ready for 
him in any city or resort he might want to visit. I 
saw only five— those in Belgrade, Zagreb, Ljubljana, 
Lake Bled, and Split— but one government official 
told me that he thought the total number of Tito's 
residences was forty-one. Some of these, he added, 
may now have been converted to other purposes, 
since the old gentleman no longer travels as much as 
he once did. 

When he goes abroad— he likes to spend his winters 
in warm, neutral countries; Southeast Asia last year, 
Africa this, Latin America next— his yacht is accom- 
panied by most of the Yugoslav navy. His uniforms 
are the most refulgent since Goering's. (According to 
his friend and biographer. Sir Fitzroy Maclean, Tito 
always was a snappy dresser, from the days when he 
was a metal worker in a machine shop. During the 
years while he was an underground organizer for the 
Party, he posed as a wealthy engineer and escaped 
the attentions of the police by staying at the best 
hotels. His first big money— the fee paid by Moscow 
for his translation of the official Communist party 
history into Serbo-Croatian— he spent, in most un- 
proletarian fashion, for a big diamond ring which he 
still wears.) 

None of this seems to cause any marked resentment 
among the Yugoslavs. For example, a man who bit- 
terly criticized Premier Kardelj for driving a Mer- 
cedes, a moment later spoke with pride about Tito's 
three Rolls-Royces and his 1961 Cadillac. Even 
people who are hostile to the Communist party and 
the government are likely to refer to Tito reverently 
and affectionately. 

This is not, I think, merely a "cult of personality"— 
although Tito's portrait did adorn every office and 
schoolroom that I saw, and the front page of nearly 
every paper is largely devoted to chronicling his move- 
ments and sayings. Because he liberated the country 
from both the Nazis and the Russians, and then 
unified it in an unexpectedly successful federation, 
his people seem quite willing to accord him a unique 
status— combining the roles of Joan of Arc, George 
Washington, and a Byzantine monarch. And they are 
still Balkan enough to enjoy, vicariously, his own 
taste for panache and finery. 



'"Vile Concoction" 

On June 13 the Literary Gazette of Moscow 
published a two-column article about Harper's 
special supplement, "The Mood of the Russian 
People," published in May. Among the epithets 
used to describe the editors, our contributors. 
and their Soviet sources were: "spiritual and 
physical trash" and "the morose outpourings" 
of "contemptible whiners." The article winds 
up with a reference to a Russian folk tale 
about a rooster Avho found a pearl in a pile of 
manure. Harper's, however, "has attempted in 
vain to emulate the winged rooster. Soiling 
itself with the manure of petty gossip, it has 
found only some mournful Avorms, afraid of the 
daylight, with which from time to time one can 
get a nilible from an undiscriminating fish in 
the fetid pool of the 'Cold War.' " 

The Editors 

scientist, and a woman sculptor. (Yugoslavs love 
monuments and pay well for them Their best 
known sculptor, Mestrovic, long resident in 
America, is a national hero.) 

The scientist had joined with six friends a few 
years ago to start a research institute. Today it 
employs some two hundred people, and the man- 
agers can fix salaries (including their own) as 
high as they like. Moreover, they can divide up 
85 per cent of the enterprise's earnings as they 
see fit— for bonuses, new equipment, or promo- 
tion expenses. My friend's chief complaint is that 
he can no longer do as much scientific work as 
he would like, because he now spends most of his 
time on the road, drumming up contracts for 
new industrial-research projects. In all essentials, 
so far as I could see, his business operates much 
like similar firms in the United States. 
• A paper mill is making so much money that it 
has built three Olympic-size swimming pools for 
its staff— all within a stone's throw of the Sava 
River, where the employees used to swim hap- 
pily enough in humbler days. 

Meanwhile newspapers and publishing houses 
complain that paper prices are too high. They 
can't produce really low-priced books, magazines, 
and newspapers— with the result that even the 
Party's propaganda programs arc hamstrung. Yet 
nobody in Yugoslavia, induding Tilo himself, 
feels able to order the mill to cut its prices. All 
the government can do, under its pecidiai con- 
cept of its role, is to bring indired market pres- 
sures to bear. So it is now threatening to lower 
paper tariffs or maybe lo finance the building of 
a cf)mpeting factory. 

These cases indicate how lar Yugoslavia has 
moved from ortliodox Marxism since it broke 
away from the Soviet camp in !!)1H. It is now 

trying, with considerable success, to devise an 
entirely new kind of economic system, quite dif- 
ferent from anything you will find either in 
America or in Russia. 

This system has not yet taken final shape. A 
group of able young economists and adminis- 
trators—many of them with some experience in 
the United States— are tinkering with it con- 
stantly. They are surprisingly unhampered by 
Marxist ideology, and they aren't afraid to admit 
mistakes; if one experiment doesn't work, they 
are quick to try another. Unlike the Chinese and 
the Russians, they do not cling stubbornly to an 
unworkable scheme simply because it is pre- 
scribed in the Holy Writ of St. Marx and St. 

What will finally emerge, I suspect, -will be a 
tmique blend of capitalist and socialist notions— 
a mixed economy with a good deal of public 
ownership (at least in theory) but depending 
heavily on free markets, competition, the profit 
motive, individual enterprise and a growing flow 
of trade with the West. In some ways it may 
even turn out to be less "socialistic" than the 
different sort of mixed economy which we are 
developing. Farming, for example, is now- less 
subject to government controls in Yugoslavia 
than in America. 

If this Yugoslav invention works, it may prove 
an attractive pattern for many of the underde- 
veloped countries of Asia, Africa, and Latin 

After all, they resemble Yugoslavia much more 
closely than they do either Russia or the United 
States— in size, in resources, in the nature of their 
problems, and in their stage of political develop- 
ment. Most of them are poor soil for democracy* 
—a delicate and exotic plant, which seems to 
flourish only under quite special circumstances. 
A glance at history indicates that stable demo- 
cratic societies have stirvived for any considerable 
time only when they have had: (1) an Anglo- 
Saxon political tradition; (2) a strong infusion 
of Protestantism, with its toleration of phnalism; 

(3) fairly high standards of living and education; 

(4) a strategic situation which made large stand- 
ing armies tinnecessary— usually because the bor- 
ders were protected by seas, mountains, or other 
physical barriers. In the Latin, Catholic coun- 
tries—Spain, Italy, France, and South America- 
democracy so far has taken only precarious root. 
And the new countries which emeiged from the 
two world wars mostly started out with demo- 
cratic forms, but replaced them fairly quickly 
with some kind of authoritarian government— as 
we have seen in Turkey, Egypt, Pakistan, Korea, 
Iraq, and Ghana, to mention only a few. 

* An extraordinary article by 1 Ispcth HuxUy in 
ilic June issue of Enrninilcr explains how unsuitaljle 
—how unthinkable— democracy seems lo millions of 

Moreover, an authoritarian gov- 
ernment of one sort or another seems 
almost indispensable to most of the 
underdeveloped countries. It offers 
the only quick road to their primary 
goal: industrialization. That de- 
mands rapid accumulation of capital. 
Although foreign aid can provide a 
small fraction, most of this capital 
has to come from local savings. And 
in a poor country there won't be any 
savings to amount to anything, unless 
they are forced— by a government 
strong enough (and free enough 
from democratic pressures) to hold 
down consumption and channel a 
large share of the nation's output 
into capital goods. 

IT seems likely, therefore, that au- 
thoritarian governments will become 
the established pattern, for at least 
a few generations, throughout much 
of the world. Often there may not 
be much we can do to prevent it. 
(As we could not prevent it in Korea 
recently for all the men and money 
we have invested there.) 

But we may be able in some cases 
to influence a country toward the 
kind of authoritarianism which is 
least harmful. A country bossed by 
an Ayub or a Bourguiba is plainly 
better off than one bossed by a 
Trujillo or a Nasser; a Tito is in- 
finitely preferable to a Castro. In- 
deed, any independent state, however 
authoritarian, is more hopeful than 
a satellite of Russia or China— if only 
because it has a chance to evolve 
someday toward a greater degree of 

In some parts of the world, the 
Yugoslav model may prove the most 
practical alternative to the Soviet 
system. Both are labeled "socialist" 
—and, reluctant as we may be to 
admit it, "socialism" has become a 
good word (and "capitalism" a bad 
one) to the ears of millions of people 
in the more primitive underde- 
veloped countries. The historic rea- 
sons for this include the association 
of "capitalism" with colonialism, 
throughout Asia and Africa, plus 
forty years of Marxist indoctrina- 
tion, aimed especially at the young 
politicians and intellectuals of these 
areas. Consequently, the Yugoslavs 
are careful to describe their society 
as "socialist," no matter how much 
capitalist practice they may pour 
into the mixture. They know it 

makes their product more salable to 
hordes of potential customers. 

It might be sensible, then, for us 
to look beyond the label and try to 
analyze what actually is going into 
the bottle. For it may turn out to 
be the lesser evil in those lands 
where our possibilities to influence 
the choice are limited— and where 
the choice lies not between socialism 
or democratic capitalism, but be- 
tween Russian domination and an- 
other brand of socialism not quite so 

BEFORE going to Yugoslavia, I 
was pretty skeptical about its "inde- 
pendence." Was it real? If so, how 
long could it last? Until recently a 
Russian satellite, it is surrounded on 
three sides by Communist states; its 
foreign policy usually looks like a 
pale carbon of the Kremlin's; and 
periodically Tito reopens his on- 
and-off flirtation with Khrushchev. 
So it should surprise no one if he 
should drift back one of these days 
into the Soviet harem. Or so it 
seemed to me. 

Not any longer. Anybody who 
takes a careful, firsthand look will be 
persuaded, I think, that in fact Yu- 
goslavia is drifting the other way . . . 
that it probably has already passed 
the Point of No Return . . . and that 
nothing short of a military conquest 
is now likely to bring it back into 
the Russian camp. Some reasons for 
this view were mentioned here last 
month— but the main reason is the 
peculiar way in which the Yugoslavs 
are shaping their economy. 

During the four years when Yugo- 
slavia was a satellite, from 1944 to 
1948, it got a bellyful of Soviet-style 
economics. Stalin tried to impose 
his kind of Marxism, in its most 
rigid and ruthless form— and the re- 
sults were disastrous. 

When the peasants were forced 
into collective farms, they went on a 
sit-down strike and the country 
nearly starved to death. When the 
local planners sketched out blue- 
prints for a new industry, Stalin said 
"No"; his plan was to keep Yugo- 
slavia as a colony, producing raw 
materials for Russian factories. 
When a Serb or Croat plant man- 
ager came up with a bright idea, his 
Russian advisers told him, contemp- 
tuously, to forget it; they would do 
the thinking, and they meant to do 

JVit consists in knowing the 
resemblance of things which 
differ, and the difference of 
things which are alike. 
Madame de Stael's definition of 
wit might also serve as a defini- 
tion of successful investing, which 
is essentially a selective art. 

For obviously, all stocks in a 
particular industry have some char- 
acteristics in common — yet they 
may go their separate ways in the 
market. And conversely, stocks in 
industries that appear to be unre- 
lated may tend to move together 
because of some unseen basic com- 
mon denominator, as with auto- 
mobile manufacturing and rubber. 
Successful investing is a matter of 
making correct distinctions when 
faced with choices. 

Not everyone, of course, is 
gifted with wit, which is probably 
inborn. Nor is everyone able to 
make the necessary distinctions 
for success in the stock market. 
But we have wide experience and 
deep knowledge of the market 
and its behavior, and both are at 
your disposal. 

We maintain a sizable Research 
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it strictly according to Tlie Book. 

A people as touchy and proud as 
the Yugoslavs were bound to rebel 
against this sort of thing. And they 
—unlike the Hungarians and East 
Germans— were able to make their 
rebellion stick because they had not 
been "liberated" by the Red Army 
at the end of World "War II. They 
had liberated themselves; conse- 
quently the Kremlin never did get 
complete control of the Yugoslav 
army, the police, or the Party ma- 

Immediately after Tito's Declara- 
tion of Independence— in an eight- 
hour speech on Jidy 21, 1948— the 
Yugoslavs began to dismantle the 
Russian-designed economic system. 

Their first necessity was to open 
up trade with the West. Until then 
they had depended on Russia and its 
satellites for most of their imports, 
and these were of course cut off at 
once by the Kremlin blockade. 

* When the break came, only one 
general and two members of the Poh't- 
buro tried to desert Tito for Stalin, and 
they were easily disposed of. Among the 
rank and file of the Yugoslav Communist 
party, however, the Kremlin's influence 
apparently ran deeper. I was told that 
60,000 Stalinists were locked up in con- 
centration camps in 1948, and that some 
of them stayed there for six years. 

Although it is obviously impossible to 
be sure, I am inclined to believe the of- 
ficial statement that today there are no 
concentration camps, and relatively few 
political prisoners. At least there is some 
independent non-Yugoslav testimony to 
support that claim; and ordinary citizens 
certainly are far less fearful of the secret 
police than they are in Russia and its 
satellites. The most convincing evidence 
is the freedom with which they talk to 
foreigners, and the complete lack of 
restrictions on the movements of foreign 

Although there is no police terror to- 
day, the police apparatus still exists— 
and it still seems to be heartily disliked. 
When the government arranged a 
"spontaneous demonstration" to protest 
the assassination of I-umumba, the 
crowd got out of hand, sacked the Bel- 
gian embassy, broke a lot of store 
windows— and sent fifty-two policemen 
to the hospital. What the government 
had meant to be a nonviolent demon- 
stration against the lielgians and the 
UN turned into a violent demonstration 
against the jK>lice who were supp<jsed 
to shepherd the parade. These facts 
were never published in Yugoslavia— 
nor, as far as 1 can learn, anywhere else. 

Only because England and America 
stepped in promptly with loans and 
trade deals was Tito able to keep his 
country afloat. 

The next step was to scrap most of 
the collective farms. Today 92 per 
cent of the land is again owned and 
worked by individual peasants— with 
the restdt that the country has once 
more become nearly self-sufficient in 
food. (By American standards, Yu- 
goslav agriculture is still inefficient, 
because the peasants' farms are too 
small; the biggest is only 25 acres. 
Eventually the planners hope to 
create enough factory jobs to siphon 
a lot of surplus manpower off the 
land, so that little plots can be 
merged into economic units. Never- 
theless, even the present arrangement 
works far better than Russia's; as 
this is written, Khrushchev has just 
proclaimed another crisis in Soviet 
agricidttire— the fourth since he came 
to power.) 

Most scandalous of all, from the 
Russian j)oint of view, was the way 
the Yugoslavs began to edge back 
toward competition, free markets, 
and the profit motive. They are 
moving along two paths: 

/. Private enterprise 

IVIost small businesses— restatirants, 
taxis, repair sliops, jDroduce markets, 
the service trades— are now run by 
individual entrepreneurs. Any Yugo- 
slav is free to go into business for 
himself— so long as he does not hire 
tuore than five employees. Some of 
them, like the iron molder men- 
tioned earlier, are doing almost too 
well. Beatity-shop operators, for in- 
stance, are reputed to be the 
wealthiest group in Belgrade; and 
here, as elsewhere, the most ruthless 
exploiters of the working class (and 
everybody else) are the plumbers and 
TV repairmen. 

Much of the housing now going 
up is also privately owned. You can 
build your own home, and if you put 
up a two-family house, yoti can rent 
one of the units. Furthermore, if 
you own a vacation place at the sea- 
side or in the mountains (as a sur- 
j^rising number of Yugoslavs do), 
you (an rent that also— though no 
landlord is permitted to rent more 
than three units. II you jirefcr an 
apartment, you can buy one in a co- 
operative, just as New Yorkers do. 
In cither case, the architect and 

sometimes the contractor will be 
working as a private businessman. 

2. Competing corporations 

The Yugoslavs call them "enter- 
prises," but in most respects they 
operate much like American corpora- 
tions. Nominal control rests with a 
workers' council, representing the 
employees, just as nominal control 
of our companies rests with the 
shareholders; in both cases, however, 
management is largely self-perpetu- 
ating. (I did come across a few cases 
in which the workers' council had 
dismissed an incompetent or thie^- 
ing manager— but I gathered that 
this happens about as rarely as a 
successful stockholders' revolt in the 
United States.) 

New ones start up all the time, 
wherever somebody sees an oppor- 
tunity to make a fast dinar. Any 
three jieople can join together to 
start an enterprise, putting up part 
of the capital— usually about 10 per 
cent— from their own savings; the 
rest they borrow from an investment 
bank, if the} can persuade r tlje 
bankers that the venture looks prom- 
ising. Sometimes they are established 
by a trade union, or a group of 
farmers who need a ntw tractor, or 
by a village that wants a new indus- 
try. Occasionally they fail, and go 
out of business or get taken over by 
a bigger enterprise. 

And they really do compete. The 
most noticeable competition, to a 
foreign visitor, is in the tourist- 
agency business. In thfe old days, all 
such services were handled by Put- 
nik, a government monopoly. It still 
suffers a hangover from the chronic 
ills of a monopoly— lethargy, indif- 
ference, and incompetence. But some 
of its young competitors, notably 
Tourist Express, are as alert and 
efficient as Thomas Cook's or the 
American Express Company. One 
young woman executive of Tourist 
Express told me, with glee, that it is 
snatching away more of Putnik's i 
business every day. (She is even | 
nursing a plan to persuade Pan i 
American to go into partnership 
with her firm to build a chain of 
modern hotels throughout the cotm- 

Competition in all fields began to 
speed up a lew months ago, when 
tlie government (with the help of a 
.'ii27.5-million loan fioiii eight West 


ern countries, including America) 
made its currency freely convertible 
at a standard rate of exchange- 
something no other Communist 
country has ever dared to try. At 
the same time controls on foreign 
trade were drastically relaxed. One 
immediate result was a sharp rise in 
pork prices, as the peasants began to 
ship large numbers of pigs to Aus- 
tria. Another was heavy pressure on 
some industries— particularly the in- 
efficient old monopolies, which now 
have to compete with cheaper goods 
pouring in from abroad. When 
their managers screamed, the govern- 
ment told them grimly that the soft 
days are over; either they modernize, 
step up productivity, and cut prices 
—or go out of business. 

WHAT happens to "socialist plan- 
ning" under such a system? 

Quite a lot has happened already. 
The national economic plan is no 
longer a cast-iron blueprint, which 
tries to direct the use of every ton 
of steel and man-hour of labor. Now 
it is little more than a pious hope— 
a fairly loose, general statement of 
economic goals. Decisions have been 
decentralized so far that Belgrade 
no longer attempts a detailed day- 
by-day control. A consequence (as 
Americans might have predicted) is a 
startling upsurge of initiative and 
energy all down the line. 

For essential, over-all control, the 
government now relies mostly on the 
same levers as we do— fiscal and 
monetary policy, taxes, tariffs, inter- 
est rates, and the banking system. 
There, as in America, the flow of new 
capital is channeled into the right 
places primarily by the investment 

But a crucial difference between 
their economy and ours lies just 
here. Their banks are arms of the 
government. They try to make a 
profit on their investments— indeed 
they have to, since they pay 5 per 
cent interest to their depositors— 
but they also try to invest every 
dinar where it will help most to de- 
velop the country's economy. 

As a result, the Yugoslavs argue, 
they use their resources more ration- 
ally than we do, from the viewpoint 
of the national interest. They like 
I to point out that they do not squan- 
der millions on a yearly change of 
auto models. Neither do they tear 

down perfectly sound buildings to 
put up sleazy ones in their place . . . 
or ruin their most valuable scenic 
assets with billboards and hot-dog 
stands ... or pile up new skyscrapers 
in areas already congested to the 
point of strangulation. They grant 
that they have learned a lot from us 
in the last twelve years; but they hint 
(not always very tactfully) that per- 
haps we could learn something from 
them too. 

Maybe they have a point here. 
But in fairness it should be noted 
that even their kind of "socialist 
planning," managed largely through 
the banking system, is by no means 
infallible. They have sometimes 
poured money into football stadiums 
and fancy fairgrounds when it could 
have been used more sensibly for 
new housing. They too have built 
eyesores, imeconomic factories, mis- 
placed housing projects, hotels as 
tasteless as anything in Miami 
Beach. And at the moment they are 
seriously worried by inflation. 

The only conclusions I would 
dare to venture, on such brief ac- 
quaintance, are: 

1. For their particular circum- 
stances—very different from ours— 
their hybrid economy seems to work 
pretty well. It has produced a faster 
rate of growth than either the United 
States or Russia; it is turning out a 
larger proportion of consumers' 
goods than any other "socialist" 
country; it has, so far, avoided some 
of the worst mistakes of both capital- 
ism and communism. 

2. It is moving, slowly but per- 
ceptibly, toward the West. The in- 
tegration this spring of Yugoslavia's 
economy into the Western network 
of international trade is likely to 
have far-reaching consequences. So 
is the growing reliance on economic 
decentralization and individual in- 

3. In the end, these consequences 
almost surely will be political as well 
as economic. For economic freedom 
tends to bring political freedom in 
its train. Already the Yugoslav Com- 
munist party has changed into some- 
thing a Russian couldn't recognize. 
That is too long a story to go into 
here— but my hunch is that the 
process is now irreversible. The 
genie is out; nobody, including Tito, 
could now stuff it back into a Soviet 



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By Russell Lynes 

AF E W hours after I arrived in 
Toronto last spring I got into 
a taxi in front of the O'Keefe Cen- 
tre, the city's brand-new cultural 
market basket, and asked the driver 
to take me to the Canadian Broad- 
casting Corporation's Studio 6. 

"You in the television business?" 
he asked me. He was a young man 
in his twenties. 

I told him I was not, that I was 
merely going to appear briefly on an 
interview show, "Seven-O-One." 

"^Vhat do you think of Canadian 
television?" he said. 

I admitted that I had never seen 
any Canadian television, though I 
had heard that it was good. I asked 
him what he thought of it. With not 
the slightest hesitation but with an 
after-taste of bile, he said: "They 
keep trying to hit us with culture— 
and they won't lay off it." 

There is almost surely a lesson in 
this for Mr. Minow, the new Federal 
Communications Commission chair- 
man, who beats American television 
about the ears with such gusto for 
its Tack of culture. It was the begin- 
ning of a cultural lesson for me. 

My reason for being in Toronto 
was to take part in a three-day meet- 
ing of the Canadian Conference of 
the Arts, a sort of Olyrn})ian conven- 
tion held on the slopes of Parnassus 
with all of the muses in attendarur 
in (heir best flresscs and h;its. Il was 
Canada's first attempt to gafhci in 

one place for several days the na- 
tion's leading artists, composers, 
writers, theatrical and dance folk, 
museum directors, and others di- 
rectly or indirectly in positions of 
consequence in the artistic and cul- 
tural life of the country. There were 
also rectors of universities, city plan- 
ners, government officials, historians, 
clergymen, art collectors, business- 
men, iuchitects, and those ubiquitous 
handmaidens of the arts whom I like 
to call the "culturettes." 

"If the roof of this building fell 
in," Mr. Alan Jarvis, the National 
Director of the Conference of the 
Arts, said to me, "it would wipe out 
the arts in Canada. Everybody, al- 
most everybody, who has anything to 
do with the arts is here." 

Canada is enjoying (if that is the 
correct word, and it seemed to be) 
a well-publicized and enthusiasti- 
cally nurtured "cultural boom." The 
boom got its impetus, I was told, 
from the establishment in 1953 of 
the Shakespeare Festival at Stratford, 
Ontario, a venture that has brought 
international acclaim to the Cana- 
dian arts, and has drawn thousands 
of people across Canada's borders to 
see one of the liveliest theatre groups 
in the world. Four vcars later, in 
1957, art became an official responsi- 
bility of the government when the 
Liberals, who were then in power, 
put up ^H)0 minion lo establish the 
Canada (Council lf)t I lie purpose f)f 

promoting the arts and of encour- 
aging the talented. Half of this 
splendid sum came from the death 
duties levied upon the estate of Sir 
James Dunn, the overlord of a coal 
and steel empire. It seemed a splen- 
did amount at the time but of course 
the meager $3 million annual budget 
of the Council which the fund makes 
possible is already said to be too 
little. The Council is asking for an- 
other $280,000 a year for grants and 
scholarships for artists. The arts, ac- 
cording to the Council, "are begin- 
ning to move out of the quadrangle 
and into the market place." 

There was certainly a sense of 
bustle, confidence, and enthusiasm at 
the O'Keefe Centre. The battalions 
of culture were out in full panoply. 
No one, I suppose, knows how many 
people turned up for the conference, 
but six thousand general-admission 
tickets were sold at a dollar each dur- 
ing the three days; obviously many 
of the buyers were repeaters. There 
were a number of "distinguished 
guests" (as visitors to conferences are 
always called) from abroad, most 
notably Sir Julian Huxley and Jane 
Drew, England's most "distin- 
guished" woman architect; Robert 
Whitehead, the Broadway producer; 
Robert Whitney, the director of the 
Louisville Orchestra; and the Ameri- 
can sculptor, Isamu Noguchi. 

But the guests were largely orna- 
mental. The reason for the gather- 
ing, like the reason for most conven- 
tions, was to provide the participants 
with a chance to parade their wares 
and their personalities, to get to 
know each other, and to talk, talk, 
talk, talk. There was a large exhibi- 
tion of paintings and sculpture by 
Canadian artists; there was a pro- 
gram of recently composed Canadian 
symphonic music performed by the 
orchestra of the Canadian Broad- 
casting Corporation; there was an 
evening of poetry readings by Can- 
adian poets; and there were panel 
discussions (which the program 
called "commissions" for reasons that 
were obscure even to the people who 
had j)lanned the program) on the 
Visual Arts, the Literary Arts, the 
Dramatic Arts, Music, and, of course, 
that catchall. Arts in Society. There 
was something for everybody, a 
(hance to be seen and heard. 

The O'Keefe Centre was a suitable 
|)la(e for a ( on vent ion concerned 
with giving the arts a leg up. It is 


big, new, democratic, luxurious, and 
cost $12 million of the O'Keefe Brew- 
ing Company's money. I was told 
I hat, since there are legal restrictions 
on advertising of beer in the prov- 
ince of Ontario, the Centre was a 
publicity gesture. But be that as it 
may, its purpose, according to its 
president, is to "provide Toronto 
with a multipurpose entertainment 
center capable of meeting all tastes 
with the best facilities available." 
One Torontonian described it to me 
as "a cultural rodeo." Its auditorium 
seats 3,200 people; its stage is almost 
the size of a small hockey rink; its 
lobby is big enough to hold a large 
exhibition of paintings and sculp- 
ture. Downstairs there is a lounge in 
which five hundred people sat down 
to meals and, having eaten cold meat 
and potato salad (several meals run- 
ning) and drunk Canadian wine, 
listened to speeches. It was in the 
O'Keefe Centre that "Camelot" 
opened its out-of-town trial run. 
(The first performance lasted four 
hours, and one critic reported: "It 
was like 'Parsifal' with the jokes left 
out.") The night on which the CBC 
orchestra performed the concert of 
Canadian music was the first time a 
symphony had played there. A spe- 
cial acoustical "shell" was erected on 
the stage, and I was told with awe 
that it had been built in England 
and weighed twenty tans. 

There was a pleasant air of carni- 
val about the convention. Every 
time the chairman of any one of the 
dozen or so meetings made an an- 
nouncement, he always concluded 
his remarks with a reference to the 
fact that the bar would be open. 
(Obviously the committee was count- 
ing on the thirst of the participants 
to help meet the costs.) People milled 
about with glasses in their hands 
discussing the state of culture; men 
and women from the CBC were for- 
ever cornering artists and writers and 
recording their words on tape for 
broadcast; flash bulbs were popping. 
A few bitter arguments enlivened a 
few of the "commissions" but most 
of them were peaceable talk-fests. (I 
was involved in the Arts in Society 
panel, which devoted its attention 
to the problems of how cities have 
gone to the dogs and what might be 
done about them. We concluded 
cheerfully that "It's never too late.") 

So many people turned up for the 
poetry reading on the first evening 

that some of them had to stand on 
the stairs leading down to the room 
where the performance took place, 
and some didn't get in at all. The 
director of the conference used the 
star's dressing-room (occupied the 
week before by Sir Laurence Olivier) 
as a sort of office, private bar, and 
meeting place for the "distinguished 
guests," one of whom got locked in 
the bathroom and had to be extri- 
cated by the building engineer. 

"Could such a conference as this 
happen in the States?" a number of 
people asked me a number of times. 
I said that I thought it most un- 
likely; there would be little chance 
to get so many people in responsible 
positions in so many of the arts to- 
gether; we are too big and our arts 
are too segmented. But they did not 
ask the question in order to hear my 
answer. It was merely their way to 
make me understand that the situa- 
tion of the arts in Canada is very 
different from that in the States. 

"You sec," they said, and the fig- 
ures of speech kept recurring, "Can- 
ada is strung out like a string of 
beads with great distances between 
the beads. It's a ribbon three thou- 
sand miles long and only about sixty 
miles wide. There is no real com- 
munication between those who are 
doing things in the arts in, say, Van- 
couver, and those in Montreal. 
Our problem is communication." 

IT IS true, of course, that if you 
ask anybody these days what he 
thinks is at the root of society's trou- 
bles, he is likely to say "failure of 
communication." (Do you remem- 
ber when it used to be "failure of 
distribution"?) But failure of com- 
munication in the arts in Canada is 
not just that Canadian artists don't 
talk to each other; they talk across 
the border to the south. 

"I live in Vancouver," an attrac- 
tive young woman composer ex- 
plained to me. "I belong to the West 
Coast much more than I belong to 
Canada. If I'm part of a community 
of artists, it's of artists in Vancouver, 
Seattle, Portland, San Francisco." 

It was obvious that one of the 
reasons for the conference was to 
make Canadian artists take artistic 
Canada seriously, and to promote a 
national pride in the national prod- 
uct. Behind this was what seemed 
to be a pervasive concern about be- 
ing swallowed up artistically as well 


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as financially by the United States. 
As J. B. McGeachy in the Financial 
Post wrote after the conference was 
over, the visitors from abroad "don't 
understand that the story of Canada 
to date has been a persevering and 
also fascinating effort to create here 
a national identity distinct from that 
of the U. S." Since national bound- 
aries mean almost nothing to artists 
and national styles have all but dis- 
appeared from the arts of the West- 
ern world, distinct national artistic 
identity is, of course, almost impossi- 
ble to come by. Artists are not in- 
terested in it; chambers of commerce 
are, and so are some politicians, pa- 
trons, and promoters of the national 
image. There is no reason why they 
shouldn't be but it's a losing fight. 
What I saw in the exhibition at the 
O'Keefe Centre I might just as well 
have seen at the Chicago Art Insti- 
tute or the Museum in St. Louis. 
Artists know that Regionalism has 
long produced dead art, and is dead 
as an aesthetic issue. 

"One of our problems in Can- 
ada . . ." (I began to think that 
Canada had more artistic problems 
than it had artists) "is that our cul- 
ture is bilingual. We believe in it 
and want to maintain it, but it isn't 
helped by the fact that English is 
abominably taught in the French 
schools and that French is equally 
badly taught in the English schools." 

Throughout the conference when- 
ever there was a formal session, as 
opposed to the "commissions," there 
was a mixture of French and Eng- 
lish. When Father Georges-Henri 
Levesque, the Vice-Chairman of the 
Canada Council (of the arts), spoke 
after a lunch, he started in mellif- 
luous French and then after a few 
minutes shifted to English and then 
every few paragraphs or so switched 
back and forth. He discoursed on 
the importance of the arts, and when 
he made his utterances in French 
they sounded not only profound but 
moving; the same sentiments when 
he expressed them in English were 
flat and ridden with cliches. Those 
who introduced the speakers from 
French (^atuuia trotted out their 
schoolboy (or more frequently 
schoolgirl) French for the occasion. 
It made me fee! as though I were 
JKick in (he classroom I)ut the audi- 
ence obviously sufTcrccI from scll- 
conscicjusfiess at hearing Frciu h 
spoken with the hesitancy and flat- 

ness with which most of them obvi- 
ously spoke it themselves. They 
laughed uneasily and apologized to 
me for their compatriots. 

INDEED, I have never been 
apologized to so much in so few days 
or for so little reason. It was like 
Texas without the twang— nationally 
proud but culturally full of misgiv- 
ings, eager to be part of the world 
but afraid that the home-grown prod- 
uct was more to be cherished than 
esteemed. Again and again it was 
impressed on me that Canada thinks 
of itself as a "young" nation, and 
sometimes scarcely a nation at all, 
but a suburb of the United States. 
"Do you see any reason why Canada 
shouldn't be part of the United 
States?" I was asked more than once, 
and when I said I didn't see any rea- 
son why it should be, I found myself 
having to defend the benefits of va- 
riety against the benefits of bigness. 
But this question was asked me by 
artists and not by the promoters of 
the arts. (McGeachy in the Finan- 
cial Post said, "Nobody ever asks if 
the Americans want us as members.") 
In general any joke made at the ex- 
pense of the United States was good 
not only for a laugh but for applause. 
The well of resentment was not sur- 
prising but its depth was saddening. 
Canada is suffering from many of 
the same kinds of growing pains that 
America is, but to theirs is added 
the unease of knowing that much of 
their growth is fertilized by Ameri- 
can money and not their own. 
Canada's standard of living is the 
second highest in the world; its cities 
are sprawling, just as ours are, in 
unplanned and unbeautiful suburbs 
while the centers of cities suffer the 
common North American blight. 
There, as here, voices are raised in 
protest and anguish, but I had the 
feeling that such voices are more 
likely to be heard there than here. 
Canadians have already built model 
towns and discovered that it is pos- 
sible to combine idiosyncrasy of taste 
with a basically sound community 
[)lan. It far from satisfies the archi- 
tect's dream of "total architecture" 
(and a good thing too) but it gives 
heart to piaimers. Toronto has re- 
captured an island in Lake Ontario 
from honky-tonk, lorn down the 
shacks ih;it scarred its shores, lc)ri)id- 
den aut(jnioi)iles to chive on it, and 
turned it into a pleasant place for 

Torontonians to walk. It is only a 
gesture, perhaps, a small solace for 
a city that might have faced a beauti- 
ful lake, and preferred to turn its 
back on it long ago; but it is a ges- 
ture that American cities can envy. 

After the concert of music by Can- 
adian composers, Philip Torno, the 
treasurer of the conference and a suc- 
cessful Canadian wine grower and 
distributor, asked me, "How do you 
think we're doing?" 

For me to say, "I think you're do- 
ing fine," would have been patroniz- 
ing. To say I didn't think they were 
doing fine would have been both un- 
true and insulting. Mr. Torno was, 
I think, puzzled when I said, "What 
do you mean, 'How are we doing?' 
Why 'we'? Why not, 'How are the 
artists doing?' or, 'What do you think 
of the music?' " But he meant, of 
course, "How is Canada doing?" and 
this, I'm sure, was the farthest thing 
from the minds of the composers, of 
the conductor of the symphony, and 
of the musicians who performed. 

Shortly before the conference took 
place a debate had raged in the Tor- 
onto Globe and Mail which made 
most of the participants at the con- 
ference furious, but which I thought 
was a sign of vitality. In a series of 
articles called "Cult or Culture," a 
reporter had attacked the spending 
of public money on art without any 
public control of how it is spent; he 
had complained about the widening 
gap between artist and public, and 
the "nihilism" and "obscurity" of art 
today. Speakers at the conference 
spluttered about it, laughed at it, de- 
rided it. Dr. Northrop Frye, the 
Principal of Victoria College in Tor- 
onto University, referred to it in a 
speech as "a tedious and foolish 
harangue," and dismissed it very 
neatly by saying: "There is, of 
course, no 'or' about it; culture has 
always been a cult, in the sense of 
being a group of specialized and ex- 
acting disciplines. It is natural that 
some people should resent this, just 
as it is natural that some people 
should resent the fact that years of 
hard work in education are necessary 
to the best life." 

But the harangue, though not in- 
tended to be, was a tribute to the 
vitality not the decadence of the arts 
in Canada. You can't make a 
fight about a dead issue. The arts 
in C>anada may be self-conscious, l)ui 
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A political commentary by Adlai E. Stevenson 

Is our society losing its "immense powers 

of adaptation' because the traditional pressures 

for change and growth have stopped working? 

TH E quality of the electorate, the news it 
will listen to, the leads it will follow, the 
inconveniences and difficulties it is prepared to 
face— these are the measure of effective democ- 
racy. Even within our system of checks and bal- 
ances, vigorous and effective government is not 
impossible. Our republican institutions are now 
among the oldest continuous political institu- 
tions in the world. They could not have survived 
from a rural, decentralized community to the 
modern world of cities and industrial concentra- 
tions without immense powers of adaptation. 
These have made it possible for great Presidents 
to reshape popular thinking and introduce eras 
of great reform. They have done this by de- 
veloping a close dialogue Avith a responsive pub- 
lic opinion and thus imposing political vision 
and direction on the chaos of separate interests 
and rival lobbies which make up— inevitably— so 
much of Congressional politics. 

This is as it should be. For interests deserve 
representation, and the compromises of counter- 
vailing power make for healthier social condi- 
tions than stifling unity imposed from above by 

single party rule. But the national purpose is 
more than a sum of these compromises— just as 
the citizen is more than a member of his own 
lobby. He is neighbor, parent, worshiper, and 
patriot as well. The great social purposes of a 
community— its security, the quality of its life 
and education, the beauty of its public monu- 
ments, its images of greatness, its communion 
with past and future— all these must be expressed 
in the political dialogue— and cannot be if the 
citizens themselves succumb to what I regard as, 
historically, the three great distempers of the 
public mind— reaction, complacency, and medi- 

Take first the issue of reaction. America is not 
in temperament essentially conservative. We 
have no feudal past such as anchors so many 
communities in unworkable institutions and out- 
dated ideas. We were born in the morning of 
popular government and national liberation and 
some of that fresh light still falls on our laces. 

\Vc turn most naturally to the future. We live 
in hope, not fear. All this is true. But it also is 
true that the challenge presented by Soviet power 
is a new challenge. It is that of an apparently 
implacable power pressing in on us from a 
steadily widening foreign base and threatening, 
as we see it, all that is most precious in our way 
of life. This is new to us. 

It is not, however, new to others. Between 


the seventeenth and the early twentieth century; 
this was precisely the type of pressure that West- 
ern nationalism, mercantilism, colonialism, and 
capitalism exercised on Asia, Africa, and in a 
rather different form on Latin America. West- 
erners in those days appeared— to Turks or Arabs 
or Indians or Chinese— to have the characteristics 
we see in Communists today. They seemed im- 
placable men convinced of their own mission 
and superiority. Their power was growing. Their 
influence was spreading— and with their influence 
went the destruction of ancient and cherished 
beauties, institutions, and beliefs. 



UNDER this disturbing pressure— which 
we in the West are only now beginning to 
a]:)preciate, from experiencing it ourselves— peo- 
ples and societies reacted in opposite ways. In 
India, for example, a long line of philosophers 
and reformers— from Sir Ram Mohan Roy in the 
1820s to Pandit Nehru in our own day— met the 
Western encroachment with intelligence, bal- 
ance, and a readiness to judge their own tradi- 
tions constructively in the light of its challenge. 
On these foundations they built a philosophy 
and then a movement which were able to reverse 
British pressure, re-create Indian society, and 
achieve independence in modern terms. But dur- 
ing the same period, other Indian groups took 
an opposite line. Leaders hankering for old 
glories and unchanged feudal society brought 
about the disasters of the Mutiny. Extreme 
Hindu groups took to terrorism and murder in 
the name of the traditional gods. On the mor- 
row of independence, such a terrorist killed 
Gandhi, the father of the nation. From such 
sterile reaction, no gain came— no nation build- 
ing, no emancipation, nothing but counter- 
violence and hate. In short, the way of reaction 
proved to be the way of destruction. 

Now let us look at another instance— this time 
between nations, not within the same com- 
munity. When in the nineteenth century, West- 
ern pressure in the Far East became irresistible, 
the Manchu leaders of China refused to recog- 
nize the fact. The regime of the Empress Dow- 
ager took refuge in an ever deeper conservatism. 
The modernization of any part of the state was 
virtually made impossible by the stagnant, back- 
ward-looking court. Then rule by eunuchs and 
assassination— typical of all China's worst periods 
—continued while the Western powers filched 
away ports, treaties, territories, customs, conces- 
sions, spheres of interest, and turned the proud 

empire into the sick man of Asia— everyone's 
butt and everyone's prey. 

During the same years, the leaders of Japan 
looked at Western civilization squarely and in 
an intense revolutionary effort took over from it 
what was necessary to keep it out. As a result, 
while China still drifted on, as storm-tossed and 
rudderless as a junk in a typhoon, Japan rose to 
modern power in a generation. Once again, the 
way of sterile reaction brought disaster, while 
change and adaptation ensured the power to 

Or let us take a more recent instance— the re- 
sponse to Communist pressure given by Hitler's 
Germany. Allegedly to keep the Communists 
out. Hitler adopted all communism's most reac- 
tionary techniques— the single party, the single 
ideology, tyranny, total censorship, total police 
power, government by torture and murder. And 
the result? After a rjiinous war, half Europe fell 
under Communist control— a warning against 
those self-styled defenders of freedom against 
communism who care nothing about killing free- 
dom in the process of conducting their "defense." 

These are not remote historical analogies. 
They are relevant to our experience here and 
now. The central traditions of our country are 
liberal, generous, and forward-looking. But, in 
times of stress our history has continued to throw 
up groups of irreconcilable reactionaries whose 
solution to the problems of the age lies in 
violence, hysteria, distrust, and £ear-mongering. 
The Know-Nothings, the Ku-Klux Klan, the Mc- 
Carthyites, the White Segregationists— all these 
are recurrent manifestations of the spirit of 
irrational reaction. I do not know whether our 
new tensions are breeding— in the John Birch 
Society— yet another outburst of this destructive 
and defeatist spirit. But I do know that history 
gives us only one verdict on the outcome of 
looking in times of crisis to a fearful and back- 
ward conservatism. The outcome is quite simply 
defeat. Men do not overcome their crises by 
running away from them backward. No cosy 
retreats from a challenging future can be looked 

Adlai E. Stevenson was one of America's best 
known citizens throughout the world even before 
his appointment by President Kennedy to be U. S. 
Representative to the United Nations. In recent 
months he has had to speak for this country in 
some of the most complex and dangerous situations 
of the Cold War. Former Governor of Illinois and 
twice the Presidential candidate of the Democratic 
party, he is also the author of "The New America" 
"IV hat I Think" and other books. 



for in an outgrown past. Times of challenge are 
limes for new frontiers, not last ditches. 

Yet reaction is not our chief danger. The 
greater risk in our present crisis is not that 
public opinion will react with a blind and back- 
ward-looking conservatism, but that it may not 
react at all. Complacency, not frenzied John 
Birchery, may be our chief weakness, and it is 
easy to imderstand why this is so. We are the 
wealthiest society in depth that the world has 
ever seen. More people enjoy more comfort than 
at any previous time. Yet there is no guarantee 
that whole communities are any more immune 
than families or classes from the typical tempta- 
tions of affluence. Inertia, indifference, exaltation 
of the pleasure principle, a falling away in 
curiosity and human sympathy^all these afflict 
so-called "Caf^ Society." They can afflict general 
society as well. 

Three-quarters of mankind still live in a 
poverty so grinding, in such pitiful conditions of 
health and livelihood, that the framework of 
their brief lives is not very distant from Hobbes' 
definition: "nasty, brutish, and short." But when 
Hobbes wrote, the rich minority contrived to 
overlook the spectacle. In France, the Court 
played at shepherds and shepherdesses while the 
peasants ate grass. Today we in America are the 
rich minority of world society. Are we any less 
prone than they to while away our most precious 
gift of time in pursuit of distractions fully as 
trivial as those of Le Trianon or Le Hameau? 
Indeed, we have in television an instrument of 
mass entertainment that does not even demand 
that we dress up as shepherds ourselves. We can 
watch other people doing it for us and sink to 
an even greater passivity of mind and spirit. A 
nation of viewers, gazing at what FCC Chairman 
Newton Minow calls the "wasteland" of the tele- 
vision screen, is not likely to widen its sympathies 
or feel its instincts of justice and compassion 
deeply stirred. Yet no wealthy group in the 
modern age has finally resisted the inroads of 
popular misery and revolt while clinging to all 
the trivia of a self-indulgent existence. History 
is neither made nor changed by the complacent 
and the comfortable. On the contrary, it is made 
against them and at their expense. 

This complacency in our society has its bear- 
ing on a third weakness in popular opinion to- 
day—the risk of mediocrity. Our tradition was 
founded and constantly renewed by great leaders 
responding to a popular demand for great ac- 
tion. AVashington and Jefferson guided and 
canalized the general revolt against colonial rule. 
Lincoln directed the energies of a mighty nation 

Coming this fall in Harper's 


A Special Supplement on 

The New Generation 

of Undergraduates and Teachers 

The quality of their education . . . 
The reality of their politics . . . 
The mood of their campus Hfe . . . 

Articles by McGeorge Bundy, Philip Rieff, 
David Boroff, Nathan Glazer, Reuel Wil- 
son, Christopher Jencks, and others 

at war with itself over the great principles of 
human freedom. Theodore Roosevelt and Wood- 
row Wilson caught the reforming tide set flowing 
by popular disgust at the raw money-grubbing 
capitalism of our "Robber Baron" epoch. Frank- 
lin Roosevelt mobilized popular despair over the 
Depression behind his New Deal, and Harry 
Truman caught up the expectations and hopes 
of the immediate postwar years into the superb 
strategy of the Marshall Plan. In every case a 
ferment among the people enabled leaders of 
stature to direct that ferment into new, imagi- 
native, and epoch-making acts of policy. 

Against this background, our present predica- 
ment is deeply disturbing. The need for great 
acts of statesmanship is more urgent than ever 
before. Wherever we look there confronts us a 
stark crisis, demanding greatness for its resolu- 
tion. And most of them have nothing directly to 
do with communism. They would exist in any 
case. All that communism does is, by its extra 
pressure, to make their resolution more urgent. 

In our domestic economy, we have not been 
able to reconcile the need for economic growth 
with the desire for price stability. While West- 
ern Europe has achieved rates of growth double 
and treble ours, we have lagged behind with a 
2 per cent rate that does not fully absorb our 
rising population. This in turn aggravates the 
problem of our growing level of built-in unem- 
ployment. Bold new measures of replacing and 
retraining, new restraints on wage increases and 
speculation, more competition for greater effi- 
ciency are clearly needed to reverse these trends. 

We add to our population a city the size of 
Philadelphia every year. These millions will 
s^vell the millions already crowding into our vast 



urban concentrations, there to live with all the 
discomforts of congestion, commuting, and de- 
clining civic services, caught between an urban 
life without community and a nonurban life 
without access to natural life and beauty. Only 
heroic measures of urban renewal, metropolitan 
planning, and nation-wide conservation can save 
our national life from foundering in a series of 
shapeless, soulless urban sprawls. 

The challenge abroad is if anything tougher. 
We have used up the momentum the Marshall 
Plan gave to bolder Western association. The 
trade areas we call the Six and the Seven are still 
divided in Europe. The exchange reserves of 
the non-Commtmist countries are inadequate to 
cover their rising trade. Their capital assistance 
to developing areas, though considerable, has 
been undirected and unco-ordinated— and often 
w\asted. Their trad^ policies, particularly in re- 
gard to slumping commodity prices, have often 
undone the work their aid was supposed to ac- 

All these facts point toward a unified North 
Atlantic economy and community, which by 
freer competition and expanding internal trade 
would pile up capital for use in the developing 
world, and by its prosperity attract the trade of 
other nations. Such a community would also be 
politically cohesive enough to roll back Soviet 
pressure in Europe, compete with it successfully 
in the developing world, and provide within the 
wider framework of the United Nations a first 
concrete example of the kind of confederal as- 
sociation under law which the nations of the 
world must ultimately achieve if they are to 
avoid the final horrors of atomic war. 


THESE are not remote needs. They are 
immediate necessities. But how are we to 
rally public opinion for such great tasks? Our 
complacency threatens to breed mediocrity of 
aim— "You never had it so good"; mediocrity 
of response— "I'm all right. Jack"; mediocrity of 
vision— our monument, in the poet's phrase, "a 
thousand lost golf balls." In the past, social dis- 
content was the fuel of the engine of progress. 
Today, we have never needed creative change 
more urgently. Yet we were never so lacking in 
divine discontent. 

Of course, we must not restore genuine misery 
in order to restore general momentum. We must 
somehow find, in alert, educated, respoiisilile 
public response, an ahcrnaiive lo the old dis- 
contented pressures for change. In every s(nil, 

I believe, there lies not only the desire to be 
left in peace but also the desire to feel part of a 
great adventure. It was the glory of Athens- 
prototype of all free societies— that by the spon- 
taneous will of the citizens, it could outface the 
might of Persia and outthink the leaden dis- 
cipline of the Spartans. We carry in our minds 
echoes of Pericles' great Funeral Oration: 

"We admit anyone to our city and do not 
expel foreigners for fear that they should see too 
much, because in war we trust to our bravery 
and daring rather than stratagems and prepara- 
tions: Our enemies prepare for war by a labori- 
ous training from boyhood; we live at our ease, 
but are no less confident in facing danger. . . . 
We love the arts, but without lavish display, and 
the things of the mind but without becoming 

So long as this temper prevailed, Athens 
proved invulnerabla. Its voice remained the 
voice of confidence, of excellence, of a com- 
munity attuned to greatness, drawing its reform- 
ing energies not from the miseries of past and 
present, but from a high vision of the future. 
During its greatest days, it proved once and for 
all that free societies can show this vitality, that 
free societies can be the history-making forces in 
the world. 

But today our society is far indeed from a 
Periclean spontaneity and vitality. Reading fur- 
ther in Thucydides, I found this disturbing com- 
parison of ^Athenians with Spartans: 

"They-^tlie Athenians— are always thinking of 
new schen/es and are quick to make their plans 
and to carry them out. You— Sparta— are content 
with what you have and are reluctant to do even 
what is necessary. They are bold, adventurous, 
sanguine; you are cautious and trust neither your 
power nor your judgment." 

Today, who is Sparta, who is Athens? Who 
has the initiative? Who is making the schemes? 
Who is bold and adventurous? Who is cautious 
and "reluctant to do even what is necessary"? 
Have free men become the conservatives and the 
Communists the adventurers and innovators? 
Can there be more to Khrushchev's confidence 
that he will "bury us" than brash self-assertion? 
Has he captured a sense of history that we in the 
West have lost? 

I hope I know the answer to these questions. 
I hope that I can say. that while free society may 
have slumbered for a little and rested and drawn 
breaili, it is ready again for great purposes and 
greai tasks, and tliat its creative imagination, 
rearousetl and refreshed, is e(|ua! to all the crisis 
and cliallenge of our perilous days. 

Harper's Magazine, August 1961 





Ever try to play baseball in a wind scoop? 

That's what the San Francisco Giants are doing. 

There are lessons (not all of them architecttiral, 

by any means) in Candlestick Park for other 

cities that are now on a ball-park-building spree. 

SUMMER is upon the pleasant land, and 
this fun-loving nation once more is being 
taken— out at the ball park. The taking is being 
done by genial club owners, politicians, contrac- 
tors, financiers, lawyers, and sports writers— who 
in this age of panem et circenses have convinced 
several cities that they dearly need not only 
major-league baseball, but new stadiums to go 
Avith it. Although insufficient money is available 
nowadays for housing, schools, hospitals, and 
even modest neighborhood playgrounds, there 
seems to be no shortage of funds for the national 
pastime, which was described by F. Scott Fitz- 
gerald as "a boy's game with no more possibili- 
ties in it than a boy could master, a game 
bounded by walls which kept out novelty or 
danger, change or adventure." 

More than a boy's pocket money is required, 
however, to stage big-tiine baseball. In New York 
for example, $19 million has been appropriated 
—and such sums have a way of growing— tor the 
construction of a 55,000-seat arena on public 
parkland in Flushing Meadows. Los Angeles, 
another metropolis with no lack of slums, is 
spending $18 million for the Dodgers' stadium in 
Chavez Ravine, a site once designated for low- 
cost public housing. Washington, Houston, and 

other cities also aie erecting expensive homes 
for their teams; and one can hope that in the 
planning stage, they have considered the experi- 
ence of balmy San Francisco, which can serve as 
a model of kindly hospitality to commerical 

This is the Giants' fourth season in San Fran- 
cisco and their second at Candlestick Park, the 
controversial stadium beside the Bay which-at a 
cost of more than $15 million— was rushed to com- 
pletion by the city when the team was induced to 
abandon New York in 1958. (At the same time, 
it will be remembered, the Dodgers moved from 
Brooklyn to Los Angeles.) The first two years in 
San Francisco the Giants played at old Seals 
Stadium, near the downtown breweries; and it 
was there that they nearly won the pennant in 
1959. When Candlestick Park opened the follow- 
ing spring, therefore, enthusiastic fans had reason 
to hope that the 45,000-seat structure would be 
the scene of the next World Series. 

Instead— in a setting worthy of a Greek amphi- 
theatre—the Giants enacted a classical drama of 
the diamond, starting the 1960 season as heroes, 
and finishing (if the ambiguous term will be par- 
doned in Brooklyn and L.A.) as bums. 

The team's ignoble fate aroused not only jiity 
in the bosoms of nearly 1,800,000 paying cus- 
tomers (more than the pennant-winning Yankees 
drew the same season in New York), but, appar- 
ently, terror in the mind of owner Horace Stone- 
ham, who promptly conducted purification rites. 
A devout new manager, Alvin Dark, was put in 
charge of what had been a notably light-hearted 
group of ball players. The insouciant outfielder 
Willie Kirkland was bartered to Cleveland. So 
was the prideful pitcher Johnny Antonelli. 
Harvey Kuenn, a worthy batsman, was acquired 
in exchange. And now, at midsummer, the 
Giants, led by the incomparable Willie Mays, 
who hit four home runs in a single game on 
April 30, once more hope to conquer. 

But if the team's fault lies not in its stars, it 
may reside in the seemingly blameless stadium. 
For if Candlestick Park, when first sighted from 
the Bayshore freeway on the southern limits of 
the city, appears radiantly innocent in the sun- 
light, it is far from a simple monument to healthy 
sport. Like professional baseball itself, however, 
the great, semicircidar structure of exposed con- 
crete does make a cheerful show of outward vigor. 
The top of the grandstand, particularly, is very 
forceful and clear. Its rounded lid (which is a 
wind-baffle only, rather than a true roof for the 
upper tier) is mounted on spectacular sculptural 
elements, shaped like inverted Y's, Avhich bend 



with the shell and then fork downward into the 
structure below. For this feature alone architect 
John Bolles and engineers Chin and Hensolt of 
San Francisco deserve high commendation. It 
places Candlestick in a category well above the 
run of major-league parks, which are probably 
the worst-designed large stadiums in the world. 

Yet on closer view Candlestick rapidly loses 
glory. The tundra of parking lots, which can 
accommodate eight thousand cars and three hun- 
dred buses, contributes to this melancholy effect, 
for no effort was made to relieve the expanse of 
blacktop with greenery. At the crest of the steep 
approach (nicknamed "Cardiac Hill") the un- 
inviting main entrance bears some resemblance 
to a prison gate; and in the structure which lifts 
heavily behind it, what had appeared gleaming, 
strong, and decisive at a distance now seems mud- 
dled, unfinished, and somehow cheap. 

The raw, unpainted concrete, for example, 
which would have been perfectly acceptable if 
carefully surfaced, was left slovenly, as if the 
workmen had hurried from the job. The ramps 
leading to the upper deck seem brutally flung 
about at hazard. In fact, on the exterior, only 
the tall, steel floodlight pylons— the most elegant 
in the country, perhaps— fulfill Candlestick's first 


TH E story of the financing and building of 
the stadium, which would have been com- 
plex under any circumstances, has been further 
complicated by lawsuits, some of which remain 
unsettled. A Grand Jury investigation of Candle- 
stick in 1958 came to the conclusion: "The city 
did not get a good deal." (Two jurors dissented, 
however, and commended the city on "a very 
efficient and excellent job.") The Grand Jury 
report led to an angry exchange between Mayor 
George Christopher and the foreman, Henry 
North, which culminated in a slander suit against 
the Mayor, its withdrawal after a public reconcil- 
iation, and a mutual pledge to "work toward a 
greater-than-ever San Francisco." 

The Grand Jury's findings related chiefly to 
land acquisition, financing, and costs. 

By failing to use its power of eminent domain 
at the time when the Candlestick Point site was 
under consideration in 1956, the Jury said, the 
city allowed prices to rise and therefore paid 
from $650,000 to a million dollars over a fair 
market value for the land. The greater part of 
the 77 acres purchased was a property of 41 acres 
owned by Charles L. Harney, some of it under 

water. Mr. Harney, the contractor for the job, 
received $2.7 million from the city for the land 
—approximately $66,000 per acre, though it had 
been assessed in 1956 for only $26,730 per acre. 
(Some of this Mr. Harney had purchased in 1953 
for about $2,100 per acre.) 

As to costs, the Grand Jury pointed out that 
the voters had authorized $5 million for the land 
and stadium; but by 1958, estimated costs "may 
exceed $15 million." To arrange for additional 
financing, a nonprofit corporation, Stadium, Inc., 
was formed in 1957, with Mr. Harney and two of 
his employees as officers and directors. 

"It was illogical," said the Grand Jury, "for 
Stadium, Inc., with its directorate of Harney 
men, to act for the City and County of San 
Francisco, and, at the same time, have Harney, 
the contractor, selling land to the city and con- 
structing a stadium, so on February 28, 1958, it 
was decided to substitute other officials, and 
three prominent arfd influential men [Allan K. 
Browne, W. P. Fuller Brawner, and Frederic P. 
Whitman] were asked to serve as directors. . . . 
The nonprofit corporation is in a very literal 
sense the alter ego of the city." 

Although the Grand Jury said it believed the 
nonprofit corporation may be a useful financial 
device, it said that, in this case, if city bonds 
had been issued instead of those of the corpora- 
tion, "a very considerable saving of interest would 
have resulted." The Grand Jury explicitly de- 
nied "inferring that we found anything dishonest 
about this deal," but it stated: 

"The end result, therefore, of the establishment 
of this nonprofit corporation is that the city 
could avoid securing the voters' approval of an 
additional expenditure of approximately ten mil- 
lion, could by-pass the Charter provision with 
regard to bidding, and could and did channel 
this vast project without competitive bidding, to 
the contractor of their choice. . . . 

"It is our conviction that where so much addi- 
tional money is involved, a few city officials 
should not accept responsibility for the invest- 
ment of millions unauthorized by the voters. 

Allan Temko, who grew up in New York, 
lived in France for a while after the war and wrote 
"Nolre-Dame of Paris: The Biography of a Cathe- 
dral.'' Now living in Berkeley, he is West Coast 
associate editor of "Architectural Forum" and 
writes for the San Francisco "Chronicle" and many 
magazines. II is last article in "Harper s" ("San 
Francisco Rebuilds Again") won the first prize in 
the American Institute of Architects Architectural 
Journalism Competition this spring. 

despite their conviction that major-league base- 
ball would be a fine thing for San Francisco." 

Precisely what motives animated the respon- 
sible officials during this period— other than 
frantic haste to bring a major-league ball club 
to a city which does not possess a decent theatre 
—will probably never be known. But Supervisor 
James Leo Halley proposed that the grateful 
municipality name the ball park Harney Stadium. 

This struck a note which vibrated among the 
citizenry. Many San Franciscans suggested in- 
stead that the name Candlestick (taken from the 
harbor point) be changed to "Candlestink." This 
is because of the aroma of the nearby tidal flats 
which is often picked up by the breeze. On 
many days, of course, the breeze is a wind power- 
ful enough to play havoc with hitting and fielding, 
and the visitor feels its force soon after he enters 
the stands. 



YE T the visitor forgets the wind momen- 
tarily and is oblivious to most of the 
stadium's tawdry details (such as the poorly 
joined railing on which I scored my hand upon 
first entering), as soon as the great sweep of space 
toward the Bay opens before his eyes. 

Here the taxpayers get something like their 
money's worth. Candlestick commands a mag- 
nificent view of harbor, sky, and distant hills. 
Across a broad cove of the Bay are the giant 
cranes of the Hunters Point naval station, and, 
often, standing out to sea is a destroyer or a high- 
riding tanker. The water is alive with white sails, 
and on game days some fans arrive by boat, a 
very San Franciscan touch. The shoreline in the 
foreground, between the stadium and the water's 

edge, remains unsightly, to be sure, but it can 
easily be cleared by some wise municipal govern- 
ment of the future, and then Candlestick Point 
can become the green, multipurpose recreational 
groimds it might have been from the start. 

So far so good. The remarkable spaciousness 
of the stadium's interior is enhanced by an ex- 
tremely open seating plan and generous aisles. 
The pastel seats, which vary in hue according 
to price, add charming color (although the con- 
crete remains brutally raw); and the over-all lines 
of the stands, which do not rise too steeply, are 
handsome. A mezzanine hung from the upper 
deck emphasizes the tremendous curve of the 
structure and provides a superb horizontal line 
which shows how distinguished the architecture 
might have been. 

Yet, as on the exterior, inspection again reveals 
serious failings. Although engineering today 
makes unobstructed space possible even in vast 
buildings, the architect here relied on columns— 
the bane of spectators unlucky enough to sit 
behind them— to support the upper deck. These 
round steel pillars are well set back in the lower 
stand (granted, they do not interfere to the 
same degree as the forest of columns in the 
Giants' old Polo Grounds in New York), but the 
architect concedes that they could have been 
omitted at an additional cost of only $250,000. 
The figure seems high. Probably a different struc- 
tural concept could have been column-free at lit- 
tle or no extra cost, if only because these 
columns are of solid steel and quite expensive. 

There are also vexing blind spots in the 
column-free upper stands, however, and they re- 
veal how complex is the job of designing a large 
baseball stadium. On jxiper it must have seemed 
a good idea to bring the stands rather closer than 
is usual to the playing field. But the result has 



been that, from broad areas of the upper deck, 
sharply pulled balls are lost from sight, and low- 
traveling home runs close to the foul line cannot 
be seen clearing the fence except on the side of 
the field. . . . That is, // drives which normally 
would go out of the park even reach the fence in 
the face of the wind. 

"temple of the winds" 

Ho M E runs— by both the Giants and their 
opponents last year in Candlestick— were 
remarkably scarce. The barriers are being brought 
closer to the plate this year for precisely that 
reason, and a 45-foot-high backdrop has been 
installed in center field— at a cost of $45,000— 
in order to improve visibility for the hitters. 
But outfielders will probably continue to leap 
forward for balls which first seem to be flying 
far over their heads. For perhaps the most ap- 
propriate name yet offered for Candlestick is 
"Temple of the Winds." The air currents, 
sweeping off the hills and the harbor, move not 
only with exceptional velocity, but in an unpre- 
dictable variety of directions. 

Sometimes one flag in the outfield will be 
ripj)ling toward the Bay, or hanging limp, while 
another is stiffly directed toward right field. In 
this corner of the stands the rounded shield of 
the upper deck apparently acts not as a baffle but 
as a wind-scoop, funneling great blasts of air 
around the diamond until they come whirling 
out over left field again. In their artless, vocifer- 
ous way the players have complained about these 
gusts which, they claim, affect even pitched balls. 

At night— and of course a good half of the 
games are now nocturnal— the wind subsides, but 
the fog rolls in from the Bay. Candlestick is 
probably the only major-league park where the 
umpires delayed a game for an hour, although 
no rain was falling, because a solid bank of fog, 
worthy of the Labrador shelf, floated into the 
stadium and stayed there one night last summer. 
And again like a Labrador fog, this one was cold. 
Although nearly half of Candlestick's seats are 
equipped for radiant heating (another unique 
feature of the stadium), the system thus far has 
proven remarkably ineffective, and prudent spec- 
tators dress for night games as if they were camp- 
ing out in a Sierra winter. 

Such are Candlestick's major failings. Among 
its minor shortcomings it is enough to mention 
that the screen bchirid home plate is crude; the 
scoreboard resembles, atid in hut is, a vulgar 
advertising sign; and the grass is far from being a 
lush greensward. 

How many of these faults could have been 
avoided? Surely the wind might have been con- 
trolled in so large a structure, since from 
the earliest stages of the project the severity of the 
wind problem should have been obvious. When 
work had scarcely begun, ia construction superin- 
tendent pointed out to a Chronicle reporter that 
an eight-degree change in alignment might have 
allowed the upper grandstand to shut off the wind 
coming into right field. But, he added, "there 
ain't gonna be nothin' to stop it. And man, does 
she blow!" 

Only now has the city put up |54,925— another 
of the high figures which have a way of creeping 
into the history of Candlestick— for meteorologi- 
cal tests which may not even be final. Possibly 
the only way to correct the wind condition will 
be, as has been suggested, to cover the entire 
structure with a geodesic dome or some other 
kind of roof. R. Buckminster Fuller, inventor 
of the geodesic dome, estimates the cost of such 
a translucent covering at .$3.5 million. 

As the baseball season waxes, so do the law 
suits, and soon, vinless there is an out-of-court 
settlement, San Franciscans may be treated to a 
gamy trial. On the basis of a ten-page list of 
sixty-one disputed items drawn up by Mr. Bolles, 
Stadium, Inc. is asking for a $2,522,400 indemnity 
from Mr. Harney for alleged failure to fulfill 
his contract. Mr. Harney is charged not only 
with failure to complete the stadium on time, 
but also with inadequate filling, grading, and 
paving of the parking area; installation of de- 
fective seats, electrical outlets, and plumbing 
fixtures; and failure to provide proper heating 
and waterproofing systems. 

But this is only a cross-complaint against a 
larger claim which Harney himself filed last 
August against the city. The affluent contractor 
charged that an undue number of changes were 
made in the original design for which he said the 
city owed him an additional $2,734,480. 

The Giants for their part, although the value 
of the club's stock has soared since it moved to 
San Francisco, unsuccessfully tried to claim a re- 
fund of $117,487 which they said the city over- 
charged them for taxes in 1960. 

But the Giants in turn are now being sued by 
a San Francisco lawyer, Mel Belli, who asserts 
that the failure of the heating system represents 
"a breach of contract" to him as a ticket holder, 
and has caused "extreme discomfort" and thereby 
endangered "the health and well-being of the 
[plaintiff and his guests." 

Such, such, are the joys of the national pastime 
in the most easygoing of American cities. 

Harper's Magazine, Augusl 1961 





how patronage politicians may take 
a big bite out of your estate 

A report on "some of the most widespread, 

most profitable, and least known evils 

in our courts" . . . and why the legal profession 

hesitates about cleaning them up. 

IN MOST states of this Union, a man or 
woman who dies leaving an estate where chU- 
(hen inherit may rest uneasy for one reason at 
least: a big piece of it may go— not to his heirs— 
but to officers appointed by the probate and sur- 
rogate courts. Even if the children (or an "incom- 
petent") are involved only indirectly, the estate 
may have to pay this cut. 

This legal system provides political patronage 
for thousands of the courts' "special guardians" 
or "appraisers." Unobserved by the public, they 
are the last earthly mediators between the solvent 
dead and their heirs. Every year overtolerant 
judges, archaic laws, and needy political machines 
combine to take millions silently out of small and 
large estates. These persistent pluckings are some 
of the most widespread, most profitable, and least 
known evils in our courts. 

"Every American family will at some time 
come in contact with the probate courts," says 
Professor William J. Pierce, director of the Legis- 
lative Research Center at the University of Mich- 
igan Law School. "Yet these courts and their 
operations are least understood by the American 
public and they have been treated as a stepchild 
by the legal profession generally. As a result 
many instances of corrupt practices have arisen." 

Depending on the state, these courts are called 
probate, surrogate, orphans, or chancery courts; 
in some states, superior or county-court judges do 

the work of probating estates, a procedure which 
is generally carried out with integrity. The Estate 
Recording Company of San Diego estimates that 
every year about 150,000 estates of |1 0,000 and 
over are filed for probate, with a total value of 
$11 billion. If the bite on these estates averaged 
one per cent, it would amount to fllO million. 

The two commonest exactions are fees for spe- 
cial guardians (or guardians ad litem) and state- 
inheritance-tax appraisers. But there could be, 
as we shall see later, much simpler and less ex- 
pensive ways of accomplishing these ends. 

Understandably, the cost is greatest in the 
richer and more populous states such as New 
York, California, Texas, Ohio, Illinois, and New 
Jersey; but rural communities in such states as 
Connecticut and Louisiana are not immune. To 
see how expensive these wholly legal devices may 
be, let us look at some of the facts. 

Manhattan's surrogate court is unquestionably 
the richest in the world. The two surrogates 
handle between $500 million and |700 million in 
estates every year. When Fiorello La Guardia 
was New York's brilliant reform mayor, he de- 
liberately starved Tammany Hall of all patron- 
age. Yet the Tammany clubhouse lawyers were 
able to get along very well on the enormous 
patronage of the surrogates. La Guardia scath- 
ingly called the surrogates court, "the most ex- 
pensive undertaking establishment in the world." 

Of course, not all such appointments are based 
on political favoritism. Sometimes special guard- 
ians—and many of them are conscientious people 
—are necessary to protect the interests of children 
and incompetents mentioned in wills. In some 
complicated cases, the service may require con- 
siderable time and experience. 



When millionaire sportsman William Wood- 
ward, Jr. was killed accidentally in 1955 he left 
about $10 million equally divided between his 
wife and two sons. His will was skillfully drawn 
by some of the most expensive legal talent in 
New York, but under New York law the surro- 
gates had to appoint special guardians to make 
certain that the boys' interests would be pro- 
tected. Surrogate William T. Collins appointed 
Harold H. Corbin, a New York criminal lawyer 
with good connections. Mr. Corbin's first task 
related to the validity of the will. For this he 
asked a fee of |2,500; it was granted by the sur- 
rogate and paid by the Woodward estate. But 
this was only the beginning. 

In 1957, the surrogate again appointed Corbin 
special guardian for the well-protected Wood- 
ward boys. And it appointed another lawyer, 
Edward V. Loughlin, a former leader of Tam- 
many Hall, as special guardian for the young 
distant cousins who might inherit under certain 
remote circumstances. Corbin and Loughlin 
asked the surrogate for fees of $47,500 each. The 
surrogate cut them, slightly, to $45,000. So on 
the first round of special guardianships, the 
Woodward estate was out $92,500. 

Sometime in 1961 there will be a final account- 
ing on the estate and again two special guardians 
will have to be appointed. A lawyer familiar 
with the estate tells me that the final bite will 
probably be substantial. But, according to the 
folklore of the surrogate courts, it would be far 
from a record-breaking case. 

The special guardians in the Woodward case 
filed affidavits showing they had put in many 
hours of work. But how much work is done by 
some others for their great fees? Some bank trust 
officers I talked to estimated that in similar cases 
if a special guardian had to put in a full week 
protecting the interests of the youngsters it was 
a lot. 

"Most special guardians try hard to make it 
appear they're earning their large fees," the late 
Professor Thomas Atkinson, an authority on pro- 
bate law, told me. 

An experienced bank-trust officer added: "The 
special guardian's fee seldom has any relation 

Murray Teigh Bloom has written several hun- 
dred magazine articles, a hook about counterfeiters 
("Money of Their Own" ) , and television plays. He 
is a founder and past president of the Society of 
Magazine Writers. His last article in "Harper's" was 
"Is It Judge Crater's Body?" which was published 
in November 1959. 

to the value of the services rendered. In one case, 
a special guardian— a former city official— came in 
one Friday at noon. He said, 'Let's see these 
four securities the estate has. If you have these 
I assume you have all the rest and besides I want 
to make the first race at Jamaica.' At the most 
he was here twenty minutes and he asked for and 
got a special guardian's fee of $6,000." 

Even much smaller estates are not immune. 
When a good friend of mine died suddenly of a 
heart attack two years ago, his widow discovered 
that the county surrogate had appointed a special 
guardian to protect the interests of her two 
teen-age sons. The guardian, a minor political 
figure, visited one Saturday afternoon and asked 
her to call in her sons. 

"Boys," he said, "I know you want to be play- 
ing outside, so I won't waste your time. Tell 
me: when your father made out his will in De- 
cember 1956, was he sane?" 

"Of course, he was," the older boy burst out, 
"What's the matter with you, anyway?" 

The special guardian said: "Don't get excited, 
boys. That's all I have to know." 

He later phoned the two witnesses to the will, 
then filed a brief report, and put in a claim for a 
special guardian's fee of $380. He got it. He 
was paid out of the estate which totaled less 
than $25,000. As far as I can figure it, the lawyer 
put in two hours on his simple, routine task, at 
$190 per hour. 


CLEARLY it is smart for lawyers to be 
friendly with the local surrogates, but 
friendship is not enough. In 1952, Bert Stand, 
secretary of Tammany Hall, told the New York 
State Crime Commission, then probing the ties 
between the courts and politicians, how the sys- 
tem worked. Each Tammany district leader, he 
said, "would submit to the county organization a 
list of his lawyers . . . and we, in turn, would 
make up a list proportionately as best we knew 
how and submit it to the judges . . . that might 
have some patronage to give out." 

Stand could only recall one instance in which 
a judge refused the list and returned it to Tam- 
many. According to the Canons of Judicial Ethics 
of the American Bar Association, this rare judge 
did the right thing. When a judge appoints per- 
sons to aid him in the administration of justice, 
says Canon 12, "he should not permit his ap- 
pointments to be controlled by others than him- 
self. He should also avoid nepotism and undue 
favoritism in his appointments." 



A great lavoiite of Manhaiian's surrogates is 
Edward V. Loughlin, mentionetl above in the 
Woodward case. In the first few months of 1960 
Mr. Loughlin was appointed special guardian in 
three large estates valued at .$21 million. Until 
recently all special guardianshij^s in Manhattan 
had to be listed every Monday in the Nexo York 
Law Journal. But in March 1960 a bill was 
quietly passed by the New York State Legislature 
that ended this sixty-four-year-old requirement. 
Now investigators will find it much more difficult 
to find out which political fa\'orites get heavy 

When I mentioned the high sj^ecial-guardian 
fees awarded in Manhattan, Surrogate Joseph A. 
Cox said: "You think they're high here? Why, 
we're reasonable in Manhattan. In other bor- 
oughs they're outrageous and upstate fees are 
very high, too." Several trust-company officers 
confirmed this. "Just don't die in Brooklyn or 
in Nassau or Suffolk Counties and leave money 
to children under twenty-one," one of them said. 
"Those special guardians out there will rip 
through your estate like a small tornado." 

Why don't trust companies and executors pro- 
test the exactions of grasping special guardians? 
"How can we?" one of them asked me. "We have 
to deal with surrogates, day in, day out. If we 
antagonize them by protesting the size of these 
fees, some surrogate will find lots of ways of 
showing displeasure. We're sitting ducks." He 
shook his head. "Say one day you finally decide 
to fight the system. So the special guardian takes 
you aside and says, 'Look, buster, if you don't 
pay my fee without a fuss I'll keep this estate tied 
up with objections for the next ten years.' And 
he could, too." 

In Massachusetts, where many estates are 
neatly nicked by both guardians and appraisers, 
several lawyers said the situation was out of hand. 
But not one would let me use his name or even 
protest the outsize fees in court. A leading Bos- 
ton attorney explained: "The judge would look 
down his nose at me and say, 'What's wrong with 
the fee?' and I'd be dead. I might just as well 
get out of the law, because I'd be through here." 
However, this April, W^alter I. Badger, Jr., presi- 
dent of the Boston Bar Association, commented 
in its Journal on "the unfortunate, if not down- 
right unethical situations" developing in many 
counties: "The public is being dej^rived of 'the 
absolute confidence in the integrity and impar- 
tiality' in the probate administration to which it 
is entitled." 

Before his death in 1960, I discussed special 
guardians with Professor Thomas Atkinson of 

New York University School of Law. "I used to 
tell probate judges they ought to have a little sign 
in their chambers: 'Is this special guardianship 
necessary?' But obviously my suggestion hasn't 
been heeded," he said. "Most of the special 
guardians appointed today are unnecessary and 
serve no useful function. But because there is 
an enormous amount of patronage involved it 
is going to be very hard to end this system. An 
investigation is long overdue on this abuse." 

Professor Atkinson suggested that our courts 
study the Canadian system. There a full-time 
public official acts as Official Guardian in behalf 
of minors mentioned in wills. He gets fixed and 
very nominal fees for his work. 


IN California, where the courts seldom find it 
necessary to appoint fat-fee special guardians, 
the preferred method is the inheritance-tax-ap- 
praiser fee. The man named "appraiser" by the 
State Controller, gets a percentage of the total 
estate. The San Francisco Chronicle has called 
this "the last vestige of the spoils system in 

How impressive the fees are can be judged 
from a survey made by State Controller Alan 
Cranston when he took office in 1959. Democrat 
Cranston wanted to know just how much the 
Republican-appointed appraisers he inherited 
had been making at their jobs. He asked all state 
appraisers to file earnings statements. All of them 
work at state appraising part-time; their real 
work is law, insurance, or real estate. 

Herman A. Bischoff, a prominent San Diego 
Republican, reported that his appraiser fees, 
taken out of estates he valuated for state-inheri- 
tance-tax purposes, came to 333,000 for the first 
six months of 1959. For part-time work he made 
more than the Governor, who works full-time 
and gets S40,000 a year. In California only eleven 
state executives draw $20,000 a year or more. In 
Alameda County, Hugo P. Correll, another 
prominent Republican, made |23,040 in his first 
six months as part-time state appraiser. 

When Cranston camjxiigned for the Control- 
ler's job, according to the San Francisco Chroni- 
cle, he said he was in favor of putting the ap- 
praiser jobs under civil service. After he was 
elected he found that this would cost too much. 
And he proceeded to give some oi the jobs to 
good Democrats such as Thomas E. Feeney, who 
had been active in his camjxiign, and to A. 
Brooks Berlin, the San Francisco campaign man- 


ager for Governor Brown. Of the 141 state 
appraisers, 112 are Democrats and 29 Republi- 
cans. However, Cranston has reorganized the 
system so that it is unlikely that an appraiser can 
make more than $20,000 a year. 

What does the appraiser do? 

"In most cases," an experienced California 
judge told me, "it's just a matter of sitting down 
to check the value of the estate's stocks and 
bonds in the Wall Street Journal. Some of 
them don't even do that but simply approve the 
appraisals already made by the bank or trust 
company handling the estate. But if they have a 
real problem, they're allowed to bring in pro- 
fessional appraisers on a per-diem basis. To 
make things sweeter, appraisers can also get a 
nice little allowance for their 'clerical' help. All 
this, of course, comes out of the estates being 
'appraised.' The whole appraisal business makes 
no sense here." 

As if the appraiser exactions weren't enough, 
during the 1950s several clerks of the San Fran- 
cisco probate court thought up another way of 
taking even more out of estates. Under Cali- 
fornia probate law, "anyone interested in the 
estate" could request the appointment of two 
extra appraisers, each to receive the regular fee. 
In 1958 a state legislative committee investiga- 
tion found that: 

About fifty court attaches or judges' friends 
took part in this extra-appraisal system. They 
had little or no competence in appraising and 
did little more than sign their names to docu- 
ments prepared by the state appraisers. And most 
extra appraisers kicked back half of their fees to 
the clerk of the judge appointing them. A 
probate-court clerk admitted getting $30,258 in 
these kickbacks in a five-year period. 

Why should a lawyer for an estate want to add 
the expense of the unnecessary extra appraisers? 
Said the committee report: "The suggestion that 
he [the lawyer] request extra appraisers usually 
came from the clerk of the probate court. Since 
the clerk generally has working control over the 
court calendar, he is in a position to see that 
attorneys have their cases called soon after court 
opens ... or if the clerk were so minded he 
could keep an attorney cooling his heels all day 
waiting for his case to be called." 

Or as one San Francisco attorney put it: 
"Fither you let him nick the estate for a few 
hundred bucks or your case gets lost." 

The extraordinary power of the probate-(f)urt 
rlerk was illustrated in Chicago in 1952. There, 
a C;hi(ago Sun-Times exposed- disclosed that deik 
Jf)liri W. Tauchen decided the aj)))oininu'nls of 

691 guardianships in a nine-month period. Of 
these about 40 per cent went to four of Tauchen's 
political cronies. One of them got 76 guardian- 
ships in that period, or about two a week. The 
Chicago Bar Association investigated, and al- 
though it said that political appointments of 
guardians was improper and that "certain unde- 
sirable practices" had grown up in the probate 
court, it concluded that Mr. Tauchen had been 
an "efficient" clerk. 


EVERY few years movements start up here 
and there throughout the country to reform 
the probate system. But somehow they don't get 
very far. In the state of Washington, for exam- 
ple, three appraisers must be appointed in every 
estate. A prominent Seattle attorney told me 
why efforts to replace them with paid state em- 
ployees fail in the legislature. 

"The opposition always comes from politicians 
who like a convenient way of paying political 
debts. The party in power, be it Democratic or 
Republican, likes to supply the Tax Commission 
with the names of faithful party workers who 
should be remembered when there are estates to 
be appraised. The 'outs'? Well, they look for- 
ward to the day when they will control the state 
government and will want to pay oflF party 
workers. .A.fter all, it's painless. It's a dead man's 
money. Who's going to raise a fuss?" 

In Minnesota I was surprised to find that the 
appraisal system had not gotten any adverse 
newspaper publicity. A leading Minneapolis at- 
torney, whose firm handles some of the largest 
estates in Minnesota, explained: "Why should 
anyone expose the system? Check out the men 
and women who get these juicy little appraiser 
fees for no work and who will you find? State 
legislators, attorneys with political connections, 
politicians, and newspaper reporters. None of 
them is likely to be interested in changing a sys- 
tem that gives them this fine extra income every 

Even ardent reformers who set out to reform 
the system seem to lose their zeal after a while. 
In one large city a lawyer running for siuroo^ate 
based his campaign on the fact that the court, 
originally set up to protect widows and or))hans, 
was actually milking their estates. He researched 
court records and in campaign talks ho told 
vhirli |)()h'ii( ians were milking xoJiidi estates for 
liow much. He was not elected. 

Not long ago I plioned this man and asked if 






he could let me have some of the data he had un- 
earthed duiing his campaign. He was obviously 
embarrassed. With a forced laugh he admitted 
that he had since benefited from some good 
special-guardian appointments. "The way I look 
at it now," he said, "is this: here's a lot of money 
u[) for grabs. The heirs who are going to get 
it don't deserve it. Hell, they didn't work for it. 
So I have no hesitation in asking a large fee as 
a special guardian. Nothing wrong with that, is 

His current attitude is rather like that of 
several Democratic and Republican leaders I 
sjK)ke to in diflerent cities. They regard probate- 
court patronage as an important means for re- 
warding the party faithful. But none of the party 
leaders would answer a question I asked: What 
part of the special guardian or appraiser fee finds 
its way back into the party coffers? 

In California a state legislative aide who took 
part in the San Francisco investigation told me: 
"Some appraisers have to make generous contri- 
butions to their party. No question of that." 

In New York a retired lawyer recalled for me 
the times when he made $5,000 to $6,000 a year 
as a special guardian. "The Democratic county 
organization had a complete record of what I got 
out of patronage because at the end of the year, 
usually at campaign time, I would get a call and 
be reminded that I was expected to kick in. It 
\vas understood that the contribution to the 
county committee was 15 per cent of the fees. 
HoAvever, there were additional payments: you 
had to contribute to your own club, and somehow 
word got around that your club leader was a 
regular guy and would be pleased if you handed 
him S25 now and then, in cash, as a token of your 
appreciation. So that to keep in good all around 
you would be handing back anywhere from a 
third to 40 per cent of what you got. But since 
you did almost nothing for what you kept, no- 
body objected too much. I went back to my old 
neighborhood recently and found that things 
hadn't changed. The special guardian fees are 
higher now— a few of them run to as much as 10 
per cent of the total estate— but you're still ex- 
pected to kick back about a third to the party." 


TH E freebooting atmosphere in some pro- 
bate courts where favored lawyers and 
clerks are legally permitted to dip with both 
hands into estates is bound to affect other civil 
servants in and around these courts. Two scan- 
dals early in 1960 illustrate this: 

In Illinois, law required a representative of 
the State Treasurer's office to be present when 
the safe-deposit box of a dead man was opened. 
In 1960 it was charged that state examiners stole 
cash and securities from such boxes by distract- 
ing family representatives who were present when 
the boxes were opened. Over several months^ it 
was said, they had stolen more than $40,000. 

In Los Angeles, Philip A. Adkins, chief deputv 
in the Public Administrator's office was found 
guilty, with two others, of looting nearly $60,000 
in unclaimed estates in the custody of the Public 

Reforming our probate courts and changing 
the "anything goes" atmosphere will not be easy. 
In nearly half the states the probate judge is not 
even required to be trained in the law. "In 
many counties," Professor Pierce of the Univer- 
sity of Michigan Law School told me, "because 
of defects in probate court orders by non-lawyers, 
land titles are in a state of confusion. Future 
generations will have to engage in considerable 
litigation in order to clear those titles and make 
those properties marketable." 

In Connecticut, attempts to reorganize and re- 
form the state's 123 probate courts have been 
stymied by the powerful probate judges' lobby. 
As the League of Women Voters of Connecticut 
points out, "the present system provides for a 
multitude of fees which are paid piecemeal at 
so many different stages of the probate process 
that it tends to create a vested interest in com- 
plicated procedures." 

In New York State, court-reform forces had to 
agree to exclude the surrogate court before a 
measure embodying consolidation of the state's 
1,500 scattered courts was accepted by the legis- 
lature. Politicians of both parties admitted that 
in a thorough reform the surrogates woidd have 
to be deprived of full control over the enormous 
patronage of their courts. 

"The vast majority of lawyers and judges in 
the United States recognize the need for basic 
reform in our probate courts," Professor Pierce 
told me. "But few lawyers and fewer judges are 
willing or have the courage to speak out. 

"That means it is going to be up to the public 
to make the start. The way to begin is for each 
community to take a good, long look at what goes 
on in the local probate court. Sooner or later 
some of your family's money will be involved. 
It's time we found out just what part of the 
billions going through these courts sticks to the 
fingers of politicians and court appointees. Then 
we must find a way to jjut an end to this legal 

Harper's Magnzmc, August 1961 

Robinson Crusoe in Florida 


Drawings by Gil Walker 

TO G E T the true impression of the conti- 
nent of America, one should not land from 
boat or plane, nor cross the border by train or 
automobile, or even on foot. 

One should wade ashore, like Robinson Crusoe, 
through the lazy sinf of the Gulf of Mexico and 
arrive on Florida's prehistoric and eternally 
youthful beach. The jungle fringe aroinid that 
big blue water never has time to grow up into 
maturity— every thirty years or so a hurricane- 
lashed tidal wave shears all vegetation off the 
low'-lying land except the mangroves; so the 
human wading out of the sea will not confront a 
rioting jungle, but the aftermath of a disaster. 

This is America: the eternal impermanence 
of any living being, be it plant, beast, or man, 
under the linking menace of cosmic fones about 
to raze the table of (reation once more. And 
what is newly created after the catastrf)phe is but 
the image of what went l)efore: the neutral ado- 
lescent groivth of green and flesh, living in con- 
siani aivarencss of ilic ( loiids ol fury gathering 
again be)oiid the hori/on. 

Nowhere on these shores, or even in the plains 
and the valleys beyond, has man imposed his will 
with any semblance of permanence. No conti- 
nent on earth has higher towers, longer bridges, 
bigger dams; yet they fail to impress man as 
monuments of his might. For even the firecracker 
of his atom bomb is put to ridicule by the black 
vortex of the tornado reaching tip into the sky, 
and by the colossal thunder of the subtropic 
lowlands, the tidal waves that crumble houses 
and turn the roofs of churches to flotsam. 

America, when approached from the sea, on 
foot, alone, shows itself in its true nature as the 
New World. Although it is as old as the rest of 
the earth, it is unlike any world man has known 
and conquered so far. It is unconquercd, and 
will remain so iiniil man has found a new rela- 
tionship, a new humility, and a new might by a 
total conversion. In this land of hostile nature, 
of twisters, luirricanes, poison oak and jjoison ivy, 
where each holi<lay may end in deaili, eacli boat- 
ride in disiisicr. ea( h nature-ramble in poisoned 
agony, needs another (iod than the one he 




tamed in the old country, where the Holy Ghost 
is safely locked up in spired prisons, garlanded 
with ageless art. 

In the heart of Florida is a large, mysterious 
lake which a hurricane turns into a seething 
cauldron of destruction, and which between these 
cosmic spasms lies shimmering in a silver haze. It 
is now called Lake Okeechobee, Big Water, but 
the Spaniards when they first arrived gave the 
unexplored swamp of which the lake was part the 
name "Lake of the Holy Ghost." Although 
the name of the lake has changed, the Spirit still 
moves upon its waters, and nature lies waiting for 
its liberation from fear in the soul of a new, still 
uncreated man. 

Soiaids of a Moonlit Night 

A moonlit summei" night on Florida's West 
Coast is different from anywhere else in the 
world. Full moon in the Far East, when it rises 
large and green out of the scented jjrofusion of 
the jungle, is a magical occurrence. It seems 
there as if the animal kingdom down to the 
smallest marauders of the night are blessed, dur- 
ing a few fleeting hours, with a human individ- 
uality. The moonlit garden sings, warbles, 
laughs, and patters with feverish joy, and the 
listener to this Midstmimer Night's Dream is 
overcome by a feeling of elation. The rustling, 
leaping, laughing, and applauding around him 
fill him with hope; it seems as if the animals 
were lifted out of their fearsome darkness by the 
touch of a magic wand and allowed to perceive, 
darkly, the light of consciousness at the end of 

The Florida jungle, recently regrown after the 
last hurricane's destruction, has a different at- 
mosphere. As the moon rises, pale and distant, 
over the undergrowth without trees or flowers, 
the young wilderness is heard to awaken. The 
first sound is a distant bleating, as if a herd of 
goats came wandering near through the shrubs. 
But they are not goats dreaming to be men, they 
are frogs dreaming to be goats, and as the moon 
rises higher, there rise with it other sounds in 
the eerie night, sounds that seem elementary, 
the sound of life awakening in matter. The 
close-cropped shrubs, the shorn mangroves, the 
crippled palms are given voice, and what they 
express is not hope, but terror. 

It is not the terror of evil, nor the ancient 
terror of the hunted prey in the shadowless 
moonlight. It is basest nature squeaking, squeal- 
ing, lowing, and bleating in an agony of birth, 
and what terrifies man in this cauldron of cre- 
ation is the knowledge of what is to come. For 

in the Florida jungle on the Gulf of Mexico 
the Great Flood is still in the future. 

After the shutters are closed and the lamp is 
lit, the spell does not abate. Man stands lonely 
in his cabin, listening, and he knows with pre- 
historic intuition that in the darkness of eons 
to come there is another disaster, \\aiting for 
this planet Earth to swing, blindly, into its 
rising tide. 

The Waters of Venice 

On my walks along the beach and through the 
houseless streets of South Venice, I saw many 
small openings in the jungle which, on close in- 
spection, turned out to be little waterways. In 
the end, the temptation to explore them became 
so great that I procured a canoe, which could be 
strapped on the roof of the second-hand car 
I had bought, and set out to investigate. 

I unstrapped the canoe, carried it down the 
bank, got in, and after two strokes of the paddle 
I hesitated. Within a matter of seconds I had 
slid silently from the familiar reality of the 
present into a timeless no-man's-land, where 
past and future were one. The jungle on the 
banks of the narrow winding stream was not 
in itself surprising or exciting; there was just 
the unshakable certainty, which had assailed me 
from nowhere, that I was the first man ever to 
visit this corner of the wilderness. 

Of course this was nonsense, I thought. Hun- 
dreds of people, over the centuries, must have 
wandered into these narrow backwaters of "^V^est 
Florida, even when it was still called something 
else. And then I realized what had suddenly 
thrown its spell over me: the undving awe of 
those earlier visitors, still hovering between the 
banks of the little stream, undisturbed by human 
traffic. As noiselessly I drifted deeper into this 
miniature maze, I felt as if I were growina: big- 
ger, for the shrubs became lower and the little 

Since boyhood, Jan de Hortog, Dutch novelist 
and playtvright, has been fascinated by the sea. He 
ran away at ten and sailed with a fishing smack 
on the Zuider Zee; after the war, he bought a 
venerable sailboat and used her extensively in 
European waters, then shipped her by freighter to 
the Gulf Coast of the JJ . S. A. and explored the 
coastal waters from Houston to Florida and across 
the peninsula through the heart of the Everglades. 
This report is part of his new book. "Waters of the 
New World," to be published by Atheneum in 
October. Mr. de Hartogs earlier books include 
"The Fourposter." a play, and the novels, "The 
Lost Sea," and "The Inspector." 



stream narrower. It began to dawn on me that 
my predecessors had been young boys; no man 
in his senses would waste his time worming his 
way into this rabbit warren of muddy water and 
overheated shrub, for no animal of any value 
would hide itself here, and fish could better be 
caught in the bay where they had room to grow. 
This was a world of useless newts, inedible coots 
and tadpoles that fascinate only their equals in 
the family of man. As the stream became too 
narrow, even for the canoe, I wanted to get out 
and wade on, as the boys must have done. But 
the moment I stood up the charm broke, for I 
was a giant looking out over a children's jungle, 
feeling foolish. So I sat down again facing the 
other way in the canoe which, luckily, was not 
particular about stem or stern. 

As I slowly poled my way back to my age, I 
felt a strange elation. It had nothing to do with 
memories of my own boyhood, nor with the 
future; it had to do with what I had felt the 
moment I penetrated into this small secret world 
of childhood, playing at explorer, perhaps for 
the last time in my life. 

Sam Brown's Trading Post 

The great wilderness of water, saw grass, and 
clouds called the Everglades is one of the last 
really wild territories in the United States. The 
only way to penetrate into its heart is in a cum- 
bersome vehicle called a swamp-buggy, which 
is usually constructed by its owner. 

The buggy in which my American friend and 
I set out on our expedition to explore the sea 
of grass had been built by our guide. It was an 
old Ford Model-A on airplane tires, with snow- 
chains to grip the mud; and perched on top of 
this contraption, lurching and swaying as on an 
elephant, we bounded down the new road to- 
ward the wilderness on the first day of our jour- 
ney. The Seminole Indian workmen building 
the road looked incongruous in the American 
laborer's uniform of khaki pants and khaki shirt, 
and they were led by a red-faced white super- 
visor who was very hot. Two Indians lurched 
about on a couple of gigantic snorting bull- 
dozers, painted yellow, that pushed carloads of 
sand in front of them into the marsh for the 
continuation of the road. There was sand every- 
where along the track and broken young trees 
and lethal coils of rusty old barbed wire, hist 
remnants of forgotten claims, now uprooted by 
the proud Indians on their mechanical monsters. 

"We'll stoj) here," our guide said; "I want to 
show you the monument." My friend asked, 
"Monument?" and the guide told us that this 

was the spot where Sam Brown's Trading Post 
had been, subject of countless ballads and camp- 
fire stories among the Indians and the trappers 
of the Everglades. It had been a true outpost to 
progress; here the Indians had brought their 
wares to barter for guns, alcohol, and patent 
medicine. Here the first Bibles had been handed 
out to them free with their month's shopping, 
and from here the first missionary had set out 
into the jungle, never to return. Some people 
said the missionary had settled on a hammock 
in the heart of the marsh, forgetting about con- 
verting other people once he was faced, like 
Jacob, with God in the wilderness. Others said 
he had been killed by the Indians, or escaped 
convicts, but our guide himself thought he had 
probably crossed the Everglades and come out 
at the other end, without having met anybody, 
and gone elsewhere on his search for souls. We 
were, so the guide said with an odd reverence 
for so matter-of-fact a man, standing on hallowed 
ground. Sam Brown's Trading Post had domi- 
nated this gateway to the Everglades for over 
half a century; it had been burned down and re- 
built, besieged and relieved, shots had rung out 
and hymns had been sung, and from the eucalyp- 
tus tree in the shade of which evangelists had 
healed the sick, many a man had been lynched 
by ranchers whose cattle had vanished in the 
wilderness. This had been the dawn of America, 
and it was fitting that a monument had been 
erected to mark the site. 

We got down and looked around for the monu- 
ment; there was nothing to be seen but the man- 
grove shrubs damaged by the bulldozers, the 
soggy sand of the new road, the coils of old 
barbed wire and the Indians and their machines, 
thrusting and rearing in their slow, proud joust- 
ing match. 

"What are you guys looking for?" the sweating 
foreman asked as he saw us rummage in the 

"A monument," we said, with an ingratiating 
smile because the supervisor looked sorely tried. 

"Monument?" he said. "You don't mean the 
bit of stone with the disk on top?" 

We said we didn't know. All we knew was that 
somewhere around here, there should be a monu- 
ment to Sam Brown's Trading Post. 

"Sam who?" the supervisor asked in an alarm- 
ing effort to be jocular. Then our guide came 
back from the shrubs with his machete and he 
obviously made the same impression on the super- 
visoi that the supervisor had made on us. 

"Where is the monument, you lousy sand- 
pusher?" he asked. 



"How would I know?" the supervisor replied, 
a small helpless cog in the vast machine ol 
bureaucracy. "Nobody's told me anything about 
a monument. I did find a bit of stone with a 
metal disk on top but ..." 

"That's it!" the guide said. "Where is it? If 
you have knocked the thing over ..." 

"Hell, no," the supervisor cried. "I ain't 
knocked nothing over. It's right there. It ... " 

"Look out!" my friend cried, and just in time, 
for the supervisor had almost thrown himself in 
front of one of his bulldozers as he scurried across 
the road. He darted aside, shook both fists at the 
Indian high above him, who ignored him and 
swung his monster round with power and pride. 

"Here it is!" the supervisor's voice called across 
the white sand. "Right here!" We waded to- 
ward him, and found him hastily dusting some- 
thing with his rolled-up shirt. 

It was the lowest monument I have ever seen, 
a milestone with a brass disk riveted on top of 
it. In the disk had been hammered, with irregu- 
lar letters, "This is the site of Sam Broivn's fa- 
mous Trading Post xuhere . . . " The next few 
lines were illegible because of a recent scratch 
made with a very big instrument, and the last 
line ended with, ". . . bless America." 

While the guide and the supervisor had words, 
my friend photographed the monument before it 
became part of the new road into nowhere. 

Only much later, in the heart of the wilder- 
ness, did we realize what the real monument had 
been: the white road being born, the Indians 
on their bulldozers, proudly pushing their way 
into the haunt of ghosts -where their ancestors 
were waiting. If the monument of Sam Brown's 

Trading Post had been too small to see, the real 
one had been too big for three little ants, scram- 
bling across a sand dune in the heart of the river 
of grass. 

Inside the Big Cypress Swamp 

We had skirted the fringe of Big Cypress 
Swamp a week before penetrating into the Ever- 
glades. The friend with whom I made the expe- 
dition had taken me in his car from Route 41, 
the Tamiami Trail, to Immokalee, just to give 
me an idea of what the Everglades would be like. 

The road was hot and dusty and quite new, 
with innumerable little bridges made of concrete, 
dazzling white in the sun. On the right hand 
side was a ditch, and beyond that the Big Cypress 

It was just a forest of dead trees, draped with 
the torn shrouds of Spanish moss, and seemed 
endless. As we drove on, past mile after mile 
of dead marshy forest, dotted here and there 
with distant colonies of white birds that created 
the illusion of whitewashed cottages hidden in 
the woods, the Big Cypress Swamp began by its 
very monotony to exert a A\eird fascination. We 
began to understand why the legends of the 
Indians describe the big swamp as the home of 
ghosts and goblins, and Avhy in their symbolic 
world the dead do not go on hunting in eternal 
pastures, but, standing in slender canoes, silently 
drift among the pillars of the great and still 
catl>edral that is Big Cypress Swamp. My friend 
and I, after driving silently along the new road 
alongside the great forest, both felt a longing to 
venture inside. 

When we finally did, on top of our guide's 


swamp-buggy that snorted and splashed its way 
pugnaciously through the Indians' Hereafter, it 
was quite different. There was no atmosphere 
of goblins ;ind ghosts, nor did the Gothic caverns 
of the forest seem haunted by old men standing 
in slender canoes. The reason was, perhaps, that 
we followed a trail that had been bulldozed a 
year before by a crew of oil prospectors; if the 
forest was haunted by anything at all it was by 
the memory of that first exploration. On the 
hillocks between which the trail weaved its way 
erratically, there were the remnants of those first 
white men's campfires: rusty cans riddled with 
the holes of pistol practice, beer bottles, and the 
broken Bakelite casing of a portable radio set. At 
the sight of that shell inside which only a year 
ago had croaked the midtitongued voice of in- 
visible men in the stillness of the forest, it began 
to dawn on me why there was not a goblin left in 
the swamp. For what is the wandering glowworm 
or a will-o'-the-wisp compared to a shrill little 
voice shouting "Get regidar the nattiral way!" 
in Spanish, from Havana? 

No ghost haunted by the memory of the living 
can silently glide nearer to God in the frail 
canoe of his dreams, if across the twilight path 
shimmering between the trees there crashes a 
yellow monster with a horizontal axe, thrusting 
its way toward man's eternal hope: oil. And 
the pistol shots, aimed at Libby's Pork and Beans 
for practice, must have chased not only the 
laughing bird, the owl, and the roseate ibis, but 
also the pernicious jewel of Aloka, caught in the 
giant spider's web, and Treetah, the monkey hid- 
ing human children he had stolen to teach his 
brood the way of men. And now here we were 
with our little machine, spluttering, slobbering, 
lunging along the trail made by our big me- 
chanical brother, and looking hopefully about us 
for the world of myth and mystery. 

When, toward nightfall, we came splashing out 
of the forest into the boundless desert of water 
that was the Everglades, now blooming with the 
giant flower of the sunset, the guide said, "Well, 
that was Big Cypress Swamp! Did you fellows 
like it?" 

We both hastened to say that we had liked it 
very much; neither of us confessed to our secret 
nostalgia for the Big Cypress Swamp as we had 
seen it from the outside that magic afternoon, 
long ago, last week. 

The Eunuchs of the Wilderness 

To reach the heart of the River of Grass, you 
must pass through ilic ouiskiris of ( ivilizaiion. 
Outside the hist setilcmcm of Inmiokalce, there 

is a shanty town of the Negroes who work on the 
sugar plantation; then the bleak barracks of the 
itinerant Mexican laborers; then the wall-less, 
thatched hovels of the Seminole Indians, brood- 
ing morosely among the rusty junk of broken 
cars. Finally, beyond the barbed wire of the out- 
ermost ranch, there is the great plain. 

The last ripple of the concentric rings of man's 
civilization is the straggling herd of steers called 
scrub cattle, the lowest-grade beef, roaming on 
the fringe of the wilderness. During the first day 
of your trek you still spot them occasionally, peer- 
ing at the limging swamp-buggy from behind a 
palmetto shrub or a mangrove bush, with big 
pointed horns over eyes that are void of all com- 
prehension. At first these steers, grazing in small 
bands on the shore of emptiness, are anonymous 
but as you venture deeper into the wilderness, the 
increasing loneliness turns them into individuals. 
Then there is the last straggler and the swamp- 
buggy stops, impulsively, to hail the last living 
being before the void. 

"You'll see they're quite tame," said the guide, 
who, the day before, had not even deigned to 
look at them as they fled, tails in the air, through 
the flooded pastures. 

But the gazing steer is not tame. He is not 
wild either. He is just one mindless body of the 
great herd of castrated bulls, a eunuch in the 

The melancholy of this last steer before the 
great beyond is haunting. There he stands, knee- 
deep in the mire, staring with the vacant gaze of 
neuterdom at the big armadillo of the swamp- 
buggy and its sun-hatted white mice. The birds, 
the wildcats, even the snakes that sparsely dot 
the waste of the Everglades, all have an in- 
dependence that suggests a personality, even from 
afar. When the limpkin swoops from the man- 
groves and vanishes, squawking, in the waving 
grass, you feel that, if you could follow it and 
alight by its side in the tangled shrub of its 
secret lair, you coidd talk with it— if only you 
knew the language— and hear fascinating tales 
of water, willows, toad and lizard, of eggs gleam- 
ing like ivory in the twilight and the tragedy of 
the lonely white feather floating on the lake. 
But no one on earth, not even the most humili- 
ated and down-trodden, could ever talk with an 
Everglades steer. For here grows a body, and 
that is all; man has extinguished the spark of 
eternity within it and, with it, life itself. 

As the swamp-buggy sjilashes on into the wil- 
derness on its lonely journey, you remain con- 
scious of the steer gazing after you, even when 
you liave lost sight of one another at last. There 



is in its gaze no sadness or reproach; it is the 
vacant gaze of irreparable idiocy, an imbecile in 
the death house. As the buggy splashes along, 
the dour guide suddenly starts to sing, the im- 
pulsive song of relief of all explorers as they 
finally face the great solitude where no one needs 
wonder why he should be his brother's keeper. 

The Great American Bird 

The Pilgrim Fathers hunted the wild turkey, 
ate it, and gave thanks; it was the beginning of 
a great joy for the new nation and of a great 
sorrow for the turkey. In the centuries that fol- 
lowed, as the American po[)ulation began to 
number millions, billions of turkeys were raised 
for slaughter at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and 
so there is now no American alive who can see a 
turkey without instantly thinking of roasting it. 
I can furnish no better measure of the para- 
disiacal state of Nicodcmus Slough than the fact 
that the wild turkeys are not afraid of man. 

We came across a flock of them somewhere in 
this vast, wild garden, and the ginde instantly 
swerved the swamp-buggy off its course to pursue 
them. He had no intention of shooting them, it 
was just an instinctive reaction. At the other 
birds we had seen he had only pointed, crying, 
"Look, the limpkin!" or, "There goes the wood 
ibis!" but at the sight of the turkey, the force 
of tradition made him splash and bump after the 
fleet animals that barely increased the speed of 
their graceful gait to keep their distance. 

Watching the wild turkeys tmn flight into 
dignified disapproval was to understand their sad 
and pensive brother in its cage, waiting for the 
birthday of Man's Saviour. It must have in its 
wordless mind this very image: a flock of its 
gray muscular brothers, running sedately through 
water and marsh, pursued by a panting, swaying, 
snorting monster ridiculous in its powerless 
greed. The guide stood up behind the wheel and 
shouted, "Boo!" and "Bang!" and "Ratatat!" but 
these sounds meant as little to the unhurried 

birds as the frantic cry of "Radiation!" would 
mean to a Papuan. So he stopped, got out some 
bread from under the seat, broke oft a piece and 
threw it at the turkeys. This was the moment at 
which, of one mind, they took to the air. 

That night, round the campfire, we talked 
about the sanctuary of Nicodemus Slough, and 
how we seemed to have wandered into Paradise. 
Both the guide and my friend agreed that the 
American idea of Paradise was best expressed in 
the painting by the old Quaker, Edward Hicks, 
"The Peaceable Kingdom," which is the New 
World's version of the Garden of Eden. It is a 
primiti\e painting, showing guileless children 
playing with a mixed company of panthers, 
lambs, mountain lions, doves, and fox cubs. In 
the background is the great Quaker, William 
Penn, concluding his peace treaty with the In- 
dians. The only thing lacking, so my companions 
agreed, in that glorious j^ictme of the American 
Paradise, was a long festive table, decked with 
flowers and frint, bread, all kinds of cheese, and 
cold turkey. 

So, even after the peaceable kingdom has ma- 
terialized, if you see a turkey gazing morosely at 
the horizon through the bars of its pen, from 
which it could flee if only it knew where, sidle up 
to it, look to the left, look to the right, and whis- 
per, "Everglades." 

The Lovely Scourge of the South 

If you ask the bargees or the tugboat captains 
to name the scourge of the South, they will an- 
swer without hesitation: the water hyacinth. And 
you cannot help reflecting what a blessed country 
this is, that even its scourge shoidd be so ravish- 
ingly beautiful. 

The water hyacinth, so those who have studied 
the question tell us, was introduced into the 
United States in the latter half of the last century 
by a lady who loved gardening and who was 
presented with a basket of blooms for her pond 
by a nameless beau in Brazil. She put the small 



posy tenderly in her pond and let it float out of 
her white hands in the silver of the sky; it drifted 
silently away, among the clouds and the lily pads, 
and choked the rivers of the South with its silent 
message of love. If ever there was a romantic 
flower it surely is the water hyacinth, and no 
throttled life lines of any overcultured country 
can boast a sweeter strangulation. 

The bloom that floated from the lady's hands 
multiplied a zillionfold and now the bayous of 
Louisiana look like meadows, the ditches of 
Florida flower with delicate mauve blossoms, and 
even in that hidden fairyland of solitude, Nico- 
demus Slough, the blooms of love drift down 
Fish-Eating Creek. The only thing that gives 
away the sad truth that they are not flowers but 
weeds is the fact that they have no scent. 

The traveler, seated on the bank of this 
romantic stream, gazing at the silent procession 
of posies, bouquets, flowerbeds, and triimiphant 
islands of blooms, becomes aware that the water 
hyacinth's disastrous invasion of the waterways 
of the South is a quest for an elusive goal. 

To sit on a river's bank in the South and watch 
the hyacinths float by, accompanied by their re- 
flection, first inspires the beholder with philo- 
sophic thoughts, then with silence, and in the 
end with an inexpressible feeling of hope. For 
whether the hyacinth ever reaches the bliss of 
scent or whether the traveler will ever behold 
the dawn of truth, seems, after this glimpse of 
eternity, immaterial. What counts is the hope 
itself; rare and precious are the moments when 
this silent message comes floating down the 
stream of life. 

The Place Called Indian Prairie 

The first time I set eyes on Indian Prairie 
was from the banks of Fish-Eating Creek. There, 
across the still water in which the hyacinths 
drifted among the clouds, I saw a silver world, 
guarded by motionless ibises and a host of snowy 
egrets that looked like small white angels at 
play. The boundless waste of water, saw grass, 
sky, and clouds radiated an exultant promise; the 

promise of journey's end, the goal of all for- 
gotten pilgrims. 

I asked the guide what it was and he said, "Oh, 
that's Indian Prairie." 

I stood gazing at the promised land, trying to 
put into words what it was that held this great 
promise, what the secret was of this dazzling 
radiance of peace and hope. But I turned away 
without the answer; all I had acquired was the 
haunting knowledge that, somewhere in the heart 
of this continent of mountains and rivers, of 
thundering cataracts and chortling brooks, there 
was a place called Indian Prairie where the In- 
dian warriors had gone to their eternal bliss and 
where there was peace. 

The next day we penetrated, again by swamp- 
buggy, into a forest of fallen palm trees, tangled 
vines, and dead cypress draped with moss. After 
a struggle of hours ^ the forest suddenly broke 
open into a great expanse of light and water. As 
far as the eye could reach there was a silver desert 
of water and grass, and again this land of promise 
was guarded by the motionless sentinels of ibises, 
perched on their watchtowers of oak across the 
river, and again, in the far distance, there was the 
fluttering white flock of thousands upon thou- 
sands of dancing egrets. The peace across the 
still water stimned us to silence; after we had 
stood watching for a long time, overawed by its 
eerie bliss, my friend asked the guide, "Indian 
Prairie again?" and the guide nodded. 

"Let's go there," I suggested. 

But the guide shook his head. "Too far for 
us," he said. 

I have since seen Indian Prairie many times. 
I have seen it open up beyond small towns, at 
the turning of a highway, behind a fringe of 
palms on the coastline, at the far end of the 
canyons of Manhattan. It is the soul of America 
that the white man will forever hope to capture, 
it is the reason why the keynote of the American 
dream is conquest, and the core of the American 
doubt a sense of futility. Indian Prairie is every- 
where on this continent, yet no white man will 
ever get there. It is too far for us. 

Harper's Magazine, August 1961 




For the first lime in years, a Secretary of 

Defense is really running the Pentagon — 

with a vigor and decisiveness that have dazzled 

some military men, infuriated others. 

He has won the first skirmishes . . . but 

his battle is far from over. 

ON E of the issues in the 1959 Congres- 
sional hearings on the defense budget 
concerned a choice between two nearly identical 
projects for knocking down enemy planes. De- 
fense Secretary Neil McElroy acknowledged that 
he had not made up his mind, and indicated 
some complex technical questions were involved. 
He told the Congress: 

As far as I am concerned, it would not bother 
me if you held our feet to the fire and forced us 
[to make a choice]. 

One of the issues in the 1961 hearings on the 
defense budget concerned a decision to strike 
from the Air Force estimates a project for a 
nuclear-propelled aircraft. In the midst of a long 
and highly technical discussion, a Congressman 
gently implied that Defense Secretary Robert 
McNamara had not been able to give the matter 
"personal attention." By the time the Secretary 
got the floor back, the imputation had been 
muted, and he could have lobbed the ball back 
or let it go entirely. Instead he gave it the hard, 
overhead smash. He told the Congress: 

I am not accustomed to making recommenda- 
tions on matters affecting the life of this nation 
without personally investigating them to the fullest 

The contrast in those two attitudes toward 
decision— the one passive, not to say reluctant; 
the other active, not to say eager— exemplifies in 

little a vast change that has come over the Penta- 
gon. Mr. McNamara, a management-control man 
from way back, has been moving with systematic 
determination to impose a coherent, pragmatic 
logic over the whole defense establishment. 
Backed by a small group of civilian aides, he has 
forced the pace relentlessly in matters of person- 
nel, procedure, weapons systems, and general 
strategic doctrine. To some he has become the 
hero of the new Administration. 'Tor the first 
time," a Pentagon civilian claims, "we have a 
Secretary who takes questions of national defense 
as a personal responsibility." 

Inevitably, however, the Secretary has pene- 
trated deep into fields once reserved for the mili- 
tary. He has barked shins throughout the coun- 
try's polity and economy. A stream of complaints 
has flowed from the Armed Services and their 
friends and clients. Carl Vinson, the powerful 
chairman of the House Armed Services commit- 
tee, has semipublicly "warned" the Secretary 
against abridging the independence of the Serv- 
ices and their Secretaries. Virtually the whole 
press has joined in criticizing McNamara for 
what the Washington Post has called "The 
Closed Door Policy of the Defense Department." 
Blue suits and brown alike have charged that, as 
the Army, Navy, Air Force Journal put it, "the 
professional military leadership of the nation is 
being short-circuited in the current decision- 
making process at the Pentagon." "A Japanese 
general who got a query like this," one officer 
has said of one of the Secretary's brisker memos, 
"would commit suicide." 

So far no concerted attack has been mounted 
on McNamara, and it cannot even be said that 
a general issue has been squarely joined. He has 
not lost a major decision, and in the skirmishing 
he is ahead on points. But in this kind of fight 
the purpose of the opposition is like tIK purpose 



ol ihe opposition to French premiers in the days 
before De Gaulle. The aim is not to score a 
knockout. It is to create a sense of frustration 
and weakness that ultimately makes compromise 
and concession inevitable. 


IN February, March, and April of 1924, the 
magazine Management and Administration 
carried a series of articles written by Donaldson 
Brown, a du Pont and General Motors executive, 
and entitled "Pricing Policy in Relation to Finan- 
cial Control." They told the story of how central 
management, that is to say du Pont, had estab- 
lished a tight rein over the far-flung General Mo- 
tors divisions. They taught the lesson that in the 
management of huge and complex organizations, 
the traditional reliance on experience and intui- 
tion was not sufficient. Additionally there had to 
be: deliberate analysis of all functions; formula- 
tion of alternate ways of doing the same thing; 
and an explicit choice made among the alterna- 
tives—if possible on the basis of numerical data. 
Management control, Brown wrote, involves "a 
manifestation of the principles on which any 
measure or course of action is based, having re- 
gard to both the ends aimed at and the measures 
used to arrive at them." 

Though the articles attracted little public at- 
tention, they stirred enduring interest among 
professional students of administration— notably 
at the Harvard Business School. There in the 
late 1930s, the articles became known to a bright 
young Californian who came to learn and stayed 
to teach. He was Robert Strange McNamara. 

Ever since then, McNamara has been weigh- 
ing, testing, refining, and applying the doctrine 
of management control. He has been a company 
man par excellence, repeatedly coming in from 
the wings to establish the authority of central 
management over widely dispersed operations. 
As an officer in World War II, he helped estab- 
lish a system of Statistical Control that made it 
easier for the Air Force to keep track of pro- 
curement activities spread out in thousands of 
plants across the country. As a junior executive, 
before becoming comjjtroller and then in 1960 
president, he helped the Ford Motor Company 
develop a cost-accounting system that co-ordi- 
nated production, purchasing, and investment 
with sales. 

The emphasis r)n management control sets 
McNamara apart ftf>m the fjthcr succcsslnl men 
of business (the bankers Robert I-f)vetl and 
James Forrcstal, the (orporatif)n lawyers Thomas 

Gates and Louis Johnson, the industrialists 
Charles Wilson and Neil McElroy) who have 
preceded him as Defense Secretary. It is the 
guideline of his career, and he has made it the 
ruling principle at the Pentagon. As he puts it: 

I see niv position here as being that of a leader, 
not a judge. I'm here to originate and stimulate 
new ideas and programs, not just to referee argu- 
ments and harmonize interests. Using deliberate 
analysis to force ahernative programs to the sur- 
face, and then making explicit choices among them 
is fundamental. 

As a walking advertisement for active manage- 
ment, McNamara knows few peers. Youthful 
(forty-four) and vigorous (a skier and mountain 
climl^er), he works from seven to seven, six days 
a week, and generally j)uis in a few hours on 
Sunday. Speed is a special forte: his rule is to 
make his own decisions within seven days, and 
he has jolted Pentagon staffs with requests for 
answers within days on complex issues (the fu- 
ture of the aircraft carrier, for example) that they 
have been arguing about for years. A bug for 
figures, he once asked a group trying to analyze 
the specially messy problem of limited war to 
put tabular boxes in their report even if they 
couldn't come up with the numbers to fill them: 
"That way we'll know what we're looking for and 
can't find." His search for alternatives, in par- 
ticular, is systematic. "In the old days," a Pen- 
tagon scientific adviser recalls, "we'd sometimes 
have a recommendation kicked back with a re- 
quest for alternatives. McNamara won't even 
look at a thing unless the alternatives are there." 

In matters of decision, the Secretary is mindful 
of the value of hedging and of what he calls 
putting the decision "ahead of me." "He always 
wants to know," one assistant says, "what the 
penalty is for failure." He Avas barely in office 
when he decided that he would put off for at least 
a year a decision on unifying the Services. At 
about the same time he explicitly concluded that 
until he got more experience, he woidd defer 

Joseph Kraft began to catch ideas for this 
article while working on a report for "Harper's" 
on the RAND Corporation, published in July I960, 
and while flying over the 11. S. A. in the Kennedy 
campaign plane last fall; he did the close-up study 
this summer at the Pentagon. Mr. Kraft's first book, 
"The Struggle for Algeria," will be published in 
October by Doublrday. During World War II, Mr. 
Kraft interrupted his college course at Columbia 
to serve in the Army in Washington as a Japanese 
translator: he has since worked on the "Washington 
Post" and the "New York Times." 



on matters of foreign policy to Dean Rusk and 
the State Department. 

As a nay-sayer, the Secretary can be formidable. 
Despite pressure from the President, he rejected 
two political suggestions for appointment: Frank- 
lin D. Roosevelt, Jr. as Secretary of the Navy; and 
Joseph Keenan of the AFL-CIO as Assistant 
Secretary of Defense for Manpower. Despite great 
Administration emphasis on the need to be able 
to fight limited wars, despite enormous pressure 
from the Army for more men, despite a green 
light from the White House and the Congress on 
appropriations, the Secretary is still not con- 
vinced that the appropriate way to use limited- 
war strength has been foimd, and he has 
recommended only slight increases in the forces— 
and those chiefly in the Marines. 

On the yea-saying end of the decision business, 
he is hardly an enthusiast. But he walks fast 
toward meetings about a fighter plane that can 
be used for all three services. A glint comes into 
his eye when he speaks of an Army plan for 
speeding up the readiness of Reserve imits. Noth- 
ing, moreover, seems to dull his interest. "I 
never seem to be put off by technical problems 
of law, or finance, or engineering," he once con- 
fided to an associate. "He doesn't know much 
about painting or literature," one of the few 
Washington hostesses who has been able to bag 
the Secretary asserts. "But he really cares. He 
boimces into the room, and you have the im- 
pression he wants to talk to everyone about every- 

By good luck or wise choice (McNamara un- 
abashedly claims the latter and shows a thick 
personnel card file to back the claim), the Secre- 
tary has surrounded himself with persons who— 
while coming from different backgrounds and 
having different interests— share his immediate 
purpose. Of particular help have been the vari- 
ous public and private groups which have been 
bending their backs over defense problems out- 
side the Pentagon. They offered a reservoir of 
experienced men who in the nature of their jobs 
had been searching for alternatives to the tradi- 
tional ways of the Defense Department and the 
Services. From the group that prepared the 
Rockefeller Brothers Fund report on defense, 
McNamara chose his Deputy Secretary, the lawyer 
Roswell Gilpatric. From the Livermore Labora- 
tory he took his Director of Research and Engi- 
neering, the physicist Harold Brown. From the 
RAND Corporation he took his Comptroller, the 
economist Charles Hitch. From the Johns Hop- 
kins Foreign Policy Research Center he took his 
Assistant Secretary for International Security 

Affairs, the banker and former government offi- 
cial Paul Nitze. From the Senate Preparedness 
subcommittee he took his General Counsel, the 
lawyer Cyrus Vance. 

Though some components, notably Nitze's ISA 
staff— which follows some State Department pro- 
cedures—have fitted awkwardly, common purpose 
has worn away individual bias to an astonishing 
degree. As a former Assistant and Under Secre- 
tary, Mr. Gilpatric, for example, had been known 
as an Air Force man. But despite Air Force 
reservations, he has been one of the sturdy pro- 
pcjnents of the tri-Service fighter plane. In testi- 
mony to a Congressional committee last March 
he could have been McNamara himself: "We 
don't believe that important decisions . . . can 
be deferred pending attempts to work out a 
modus Vivendi which will be satisfactory to 

McNamara and his band were hardly in place 
before they began busting open problems for 
decision. As a first step, the Secretary named task 
forces, headed by members of his civilian staff 
and including important Service representation, 
to study four problems that covered the whole 
range of Pentagon responsibilities: Nuclear War; 
Limited War; Research and Development; In- 
stallations and Logistics. The task force reports, 
among other things, identified major subprob- 
lems within each area. To tackle these, the 
Secretary has sent out over a hundred major re- 
quests for information and recommendations. 
The inquiry about the uses of the aircraft carrier 
is a typical example. Another asked for com- 
ments on a plan to merge the Army's Strategic 
Army Corps with the Air Force's Tactical Air 
Command in a single limited-war unit. Still a 
third, of more grandiose proportions, called for 
"a draft memorandum revising the basic national- 
security policies and assumptions including the 
assumptions relating to 'counterforce strikes' (nu- 
clear attack on an enemy's military forces) and 
the initiation of the use of tactical atomic 


ON T H E basis of the replies, McNamara 
has been making decisions at a pace un- 
known in the peacetime annals of the Pentagon. 
A whole range of actions flowed from the finding 
of the Nuclear War study that the prime requi- 
site was protection of America's deterrent power 
against a surprise Soviet attack. In keeping with 
that emphasis, the Secretary recommended to the 
Congress: a 50 per cent increase, to be achieved 



by 1964, in the Polaris submarine force— which 
can be dispersed and concealed in the seas; a 
100 per cent increase, to be achieved by 1968, in 
the production capacity for Minuteman missiles 
—which can be protected and, to some extent, 
hidden underground; a 50 per cent increase in 
the number of bombers which can be got off the 
ground on fifteen minutes' notice; a $50-million 
increase in the Skybolt missiles to be fired from 
attacking bombers; a $60-million increase in the 
Midas warning system. Because of the step-up 
in Polaris and Minuteman strength, he canceled 
out orders for two squadrons of a larger and more 
costly long-range missile, the Titan II, scratching 
that rather than the more vidnerable Atlas, be- 
cause the latter was much further along in pro- 
duction and would fill the gap until the Polaris 
and Minuteman are ready. 

Limited War studies are still in the works. 
One version, several inches thick, was boiled 
down by the Secretary himself to a list of ques- 
tions only three-quarters of a page long. Even 
so, the exercise has already indicated that the 
problem lies less in the number of troops avail- 
able, than in getting them to the right place at 
the right time. To this end the Secretary has 
already recommended a 75 per cent increase in 
the airlift capacity of the Military Air Transport 
Service; an increase of 15,000 men in the Marine 
Corps and 5,000 in the Army; and a reshaping of 
the Reserve organization designed to make avail- 
able two Reserve divisions on three weeks' notice. 

The Research and Development report spot- 
lighted several major programs that were either 
in duplication with other projects or proceeding 
so slowly as to be of dubious worth when com- 
pleted. The Secretary canceled entirely the ex- 
pensive program for a nuclear-powered aircraft. 
In the expectation of developing a tri-Service 
fighter, he also canceled out, at an immediate 
saving of S58 million, a program for a new Navy 
fighter— the Eagle-Missileer. In what may be his 
most controversial decision, he hedged on the 
B-70 long-range, supersonic bomber. He main- 
tained the project at the development stage, thus 
keeping open the option for eventual production. 
Rut he held off on advance toward the produc- 
(ion stage on the ground that production costs 
wr)uld run into the billions while even at the 
earliest prochution date, missiles might make the 
))lane obsolescent. 

The Lf)gisii(s and Insiallaiions report un- 
covered l?y installations (52 in this (ountry, 21 
abroad) that were surplus U) the needs o( ilic 
'lefensc establishment. The Secretary has ordeied 
them closed down. FIc has also set up, lor the 

first time in the Pentagon, an Office of Economic 
Adjustment, to ease the impact of the closings on 
hard-hit communities and, if possible, to find 
constrtictive uses for the abandoned facilities. 

"a quick fix" 

IN addition to these operational decisions, the 
Secretary has been working out important pro- 
cedural changes with General Counsel Vance and 
Comptroller Hitch. Under Vance, there has been 
set up an Office of Organization and Manage- 
ment Planning. It has a general mission to hunt 
out organizational changes apt to improve effi- 
ciency. For example, it is looking at the idea of 
placing each major weapon system vmder a single 
project boss— the method followed by the Navy 
in developing the Polaris. It is also considering 
the possibility of consolidating fimctions that all 
three Services perform independently— intelli- 
gence, for example. 

Hitch has been given the green light for two 
proposals outlined in his much discussed book. 
The Economics of Defense in the Nuclear Age. 
He is putting into effect within the Depart- 
ment the so-called Performance Budget. Gone 
are the days of only considering Service estimates 
piecemeal in terms of personnel, procvirement, 
constrtiction, etc. Now the requests are also 
grouped into major categories that relate to 
military purposes, or what Hitch calls "end- 
product missions." Thus there is one major 
category for the Nuclear Deterrent, followed by 
a listing of all the different elements, and their 
costs, that contribute to the deterrent strength. 
Hitch argues that "officials can make more per- 
ceptive judgments about the importance to the 
nation of these missions than they can make 
about" such items as personnel which could be 
used for anything. 

He has also established a Programming Office 
that, among other things, should end the old 
practice of fitting defense estimates to arbitrary 
budget ceilings. In the pnst, the military would 
make plans— involving billions of dollars spent 
over many years— without reference to the money 
that was available. To hold them in bounds, 
previous Administrations established dollar ceil- 
ings, and ordered the military to cut their re- 
quests accordingly. The residt was stretch-out, 
cutback, and the punishing annual clash between 
military men and budgeteers that was so promi- 
nent a feature of the Eisenhower years. 

Through the Programming Office, Hitch plans 
to associate budgeteers with the military men 
early in the planning phase. A rough j)rice lag 



will be put on all projects, not only for one year, 
but for the lifetime of the project and including 
development, production, and operating ex- 
penses. In that way the military planners will 
be obliged to consider the financial implications 
of what they do at all times. "We want," Hitch 
puts it, "to introduce cost considerations at the 
right time— when the decisions are first made . . . 
and not later in the cycle during the hectic stages 
of some annual budget review." 

In looking back over what has been done, the 
Secretary emphasizes that it is only a first in- 
stallment— "a quick fix," in Pentagon argot. He 
also acknowledges that "the changes are not 
minor." On that there is no argument. Only 
something major could have called forth, as the 
McNamara program has, the defense establish- 
ment's immense, multiform, deep, and abiding 
capacity to resist. 


THREE days before he left the White 
House, President Eisenhower issued a por- 
tentous warning to the nation. His Farewell 
Address spoke of the "conjunction of an immense 
military establishment and a large arms indus- 
try." It said: 

The total influence— economic, political, even 
spiritual— is felt in every city, every State House, 
every office of the federal government. . . . We must 
guard against the acquisition of unwarranted in- 
fluence, whether sought or unsought, by the mili- 
tary industrial complex. 

Numerical evidence for that argument is im- 
pressive. The Armed Services, at the heart of the 
"complex," include 2.5 million uniformed per- 
sonnel. More than a million civilians work di- 
rectly for the Defense Department. Between 
three and four million people support their fami- 
lies on earnings from defense contractors. Half 
the national budget and about a twelfth of the 
gross national product go into defense expendi- 
tures. A hundred of the nation's biggest and 
most powerful companies, many of them entirely 
dependent upon defense business, do more than 
$15-billion worth of annual business with the 
Defense Department. Dozens of major communi- 
ties depend on defense business and installations 
for taxes, local commerce, real-estate values, and 
employment and union activities. In Los Angeles, 
for example, more than half the jobs come, 
directly or indirectly, from defense business. 

It is dubious— highly dubious— whether "the 
complex" as a whole has the cohesion or single- 
ness of purpose to enforce its will on the nation 

in any major issue. A strong case can be made 
that the pluralism of the system— the separate- 
ness of the Armed Services, the spread of defense 
business and installations— is an almost absolute 
surety against undue influence of a positive kind. 
But the whole "complex" shares, and feels inti- 
mately, the experience of life in an age of rapidly 
changing technology. Each of the constituent 
elements— and that includes the flyers of the B-70 
as much as its makers; the Corps of Engineers 
as much as the PX manager; the battleship ad- 
mirals as much as the shipyard workers— lives in 
the shadow of obsolescence. They are constantly 
on guard against changes that, rightly or wrongly, 
they consider a threat. Potentially, they are all 

The professional military men, moreover, are 
conspicuous for dedication to the service of the 
nation. They are familiar with the country's 
military posture, and with the deadly menace of 
potential enemies. They believe strongly and 
sincerely in what they are doing, and in what 
their units and Services are doing. To fight for 
these is, to them, a matter of simple, patriotic 
duty. And they possess, apart from the foot- 
dragging powers native to all bureaucracies, 
enormous resources in the press, the Congress, 
and the general area of public debate. 

The press is important because it provides a 
way for the military to vent their views without 
the risk of public identification and counterargu- 
ment entailed in Congressional testimony. A 
large segment of the press— the professional mili- 
tary journals and the trade magazines catering to 
defense industry— start off with a friendly bias. 
More general newspapers tend to line up with 
the military because the leaks staff officers can 
supply are usually more intriguing (to reporters, 
editors, and readers alike) than the official hand- 
outs of the Defense Department. A clampdown 
on leaks, moreover, is especially jierilous. It 
bands the reporters and the military together in 
embattled defense of the freedom of information 
—a subject as dear to the press as theoietical argu- 
ment is to Talmudic scholars, and often with 
about the same relevance to reality. 

The Congress, of course, is heavy with mem- 
bers who are quite properly concerned to look 
after the interests of their coiisliiiuMiis. Thou- 
sands of j)eople in the Fort Worth area repre- 
sented by Congressman James W^iiglit of Texas 
work in the Convair jilant that j)roduces the 
B-58. If he wants to be re-elected it is a good 
thing for Mr. Wright to be known— as he is— as 
the "Congressman from Convair." Tlie North 
American plants which produce the B-70 affect 



the whole Los Angeles area. Representatives 
Edgar Hiestand and Clyde Doyle trom Calilornia 
are not exactly skeptical about the B-70. The 
electrical workers' union in Brooklyn is con- 
cerned lest members be thrown out of w^ork by 
the closing ot the Navy Yard there. So, unsur- 
prisingly, is Representative Emanuel Cellcr. The 
Griffis Air Base and Army Arsenal in Rome, New 
York, are important sources ol jobs in a de- 
pressed area. Sam Stratton, the Congressman 
Irom that district, is one of the most intelligent 
young men in the Congress. But he is at a little 
less than his best when it comes to authorizing 
Titan missiles that might swell the ^vork force 
at Griffis. And so it goes, up and down the length 
and breadth of the country. 

In addition, there are the jjrivatc ties of Con- 
gressmen and Senators with one or another of the 
Services. Tw^o score legislators hold reserve com- 
missions—six of them as generals— while hundreds 
served in wartime. Senator Paid Douglas of 
Illinois, a veteran of Peleliu and Okinawa gets 
misty-eyed when the Marines come into question. 
Representative James G. Fulton of Pennsylvania 
is pushing the comedy of imderstatement to ex- 
tremes when he says: "I have been a Navy man 
so I may be a little prejudiced. " When he is not 
asking that Polaris submarines be named after 
vessels in the Confederate navy, Senator Strom 
Thurmond of South Carolina, a Brigadier in the 
Army Reserve, can be foimd fighting the Army's 
legislative battles— notably on behalf of the Nike- 
Zeus anti-missile missile. 

Even more important are the vested interests 
of senior legislators holding strategic committee 
posts. Mr. Carl Vinson of Georgia, the chairman 
of the House Armed Services committee, w-as 
elected to the House in 1914. He has been chair- 
man of the committee since its inception back 
in 1947— and of the House Naval Affairs com- 
mittee for fifteen years before that. He knows the 
inside and outside of military budgeteering as 
few men. But he also has a host of friends in the 
Services. His post affords him immense patron- 
age. It is not an accident that Georgia is so 
heavily laden with bases that, as an Air Force 
officer once put it, "one more would sink the 
stale. "* Neither is it an accident that no one has 
ever accused Mr. Vinson of being a wild-eved 
advocate of change. He likes things ])retty miuh 
as they are. 

What lends special force to tlie staiulpaftcrs is 
that they have available for use a ((jllcnion of 

•Georgia lias c iglii Air bases, five Armv lorls. in 
(iiifiing llic liiif^c i(il:'iilry (amp ol I'oi i IW iiiiiiij^, and 
six other insiallaiif)ns. 

talking points, half truths, empty gen^ra^lities, 
and red herrings that would fill any arsenal in 
the country. The so-called Great Debates of the 
past have not tinned on square, or even soluble 
issues. On the contrary they have raised such 
questions as Security vs. Freedom of the Press; 
Military Discipline vs. the Right of the Congress 
to Know; Civilian vs. Military Authority; Mili- 
tary vs. Budgetary Needs. These are precisely the 
kind of questions that effective, free societies have 
traditionally declined to settle— for the very good 
reason that they cannot be finally settled. The 
predictable result of such general debates as the 
Admirals' revolt of 1949 is all that their pro- 
moters coidd wish for: a heating up of tempers, 
ending in a confirmation of things as they were. 
The Great Debate on matters of principle, in 
short, is the ultimate weapon of those who ^vould 
stand pat with the old system. 


THE McNamara program, of course, poses 
a severe challenge to the old system. By 
its explicit choices on weapons systems and on 
bases, it runs athw^art a wide variety of constit- 
uency, contractors, and Service interests. In the 
Congressional hearings, the expected resistance 
came from the expected sources. Senator Thur- 
mond, with encouragement from Army spokes- 
men, proposed a larger appropriation for the 
Nike-Zeus system. Congressman Stratton, argu- 
ing that the Titan was an "invulnerable missile," 
moved for "an increase of S25 million to provide 
for the restoration of the two Titan II missile 
squadrons that were dropped out by the Depart- 
ment." Congressman VV^right, in a special ap- 
pearance as a witness before the House Armed 
Services committee pressed for two more wings 
of the B-58— "the best bomber we ha\e." On the 
nuclear plane, one of its ])rime Congressional 
advocates served up to General Thomas White, 
Chief of Air Staff, a soft ball, obviouslv meant 
to be batted out of the park. This was the 

Q. In other words, General, you don't think of 
a nuclear powered plane as a "gimmick" . . . ? 
A. No sir. 

Still all matters of weapon choice posed scpiarc 
issues, and Secretary McNamara could argue to 
the fads. The great body ol the Congress was 
obviously impressed by his jjresentations. Sena- 
tor Richard Russell, veteran chairman of the 
Senate Armed Set vices committee, told the Secre- 



I have been listening to statements from oflicials 
of the Department of Defense now for almost thirty 
years . . . and 1 have never heard one that was 
clearer, more definitive, and yet more comprehen- 
sive than the statement that you have given to this 

In committee, the Secretary won every trick 
but one. The Congress was not convinced by his 
arguments that by 1970 it would be safe to rely 
entirely on missile strength, and it has voted 
S500 million more than the Secretary sought for 
B-52 bombers. Even that loss can be erased. The 
Administration can, and probably will, refuse 
to use the money. 

WHiat the Secretary does, however, has not been 
put into question nearly so much as the way he 
does it. In particular, though tho military per 
sonnel cannot voice the feeling openly, it is cleat 
that they resent the intrusion of the Secretary 
and his staff deep into the field of military plans. 
One general, speaking with obvious sarcasm, told 
a House committee: 

We read every day about how fortunate we are 
to have the civilian competency Avhich is being 
brought into the government, and as a simple mili- 
tary man I accept these profound decisions as being 
made in great wisdom. 

In similar vein another general declared he 
was speaking "from the relatively limited point 
of view of . . . an aviator of mOre than thirty-five 
years' service in flying." The Army, Navy, Air 
Force Journal, obviously sniping at the academic 
background of McNamara's staff, has run a fable 
demonstrating ^vhat would happen if a general 
took over a university and began meddling in the 
curriculiun. According to one very well-informed 
Pentagon correspondent, Lloyd Norman of 
Neivsiueek, the brass has been meeting outside 
the building to keep clear of the civilian leader- 
ship. "I wish," one philosophic general, s]3eaking 
privately of bygone civilian bosses, candidly ac- 
knowledges, "we had those dumb bastards back 

Such feelings provide the stuff of Great De- 
bates, and preliminary maneuvers have already 
given Secretary McNamara more than a whiff of 
the grapeshot. Two cases in point are the affair 
of the Rusk memo and the affair of the Lemnitzer 

The affair of the Rusk memo began on Febru- 
ary 15, when Secretary of State Rusk sent to 
Secretary McNamara a memo setting out s^eneral 
foreign-policy requirements for .American mili- 
tary power. Among other th'ngs, he reiterated 
the need to have a strong nuclear force available 
for deterrent purposes, notably in Europe. Some 

circles of the Air Forte, however, sensed in the 
Administration emphasis on limited warfare a 
trend that might have the effect of favoring the 
Army and clipping Air Force wings. In the Rusk 
memo they saw a chance to publicize these fears, 
and win for their position the backing of the 
European allies. On February 27, a leaked but 
badly distorted version of the Rusk memo ap- 
peared in the Washington Star. Among other 
things, it implied that Secretary Rusk favored 
abandonment of the nuclear deterrent in Europe. 
The European allies immediately questioned the 
State Department which denied the story, sa)ing 
it exeinplified "an irresponsible and reckless atti- 
tude." Secretary McNamara instituted an investi- 
gation of the leak. 

A great mass of circumstantial evidence- 
though not clear proof— pointed to an Air Force 
officer. He was relieved of his Pentagon duties 
and posted to the field. "The military," as the 
London Economist put it, "reacted with an old 
tactic— overzealousness in carrying out orders." 
Even on innocuous stories, news sources all over 
the Pentagon began clamming up. The j^ress 
immediately went to work on Secretary McNa- 
mara. Stories critical of his information policies 
appeared on the wire services and all the major 
dailies. An Associated Press story of May 13, for 
example, acknowledged the need to stop security 
leaks, and then hauled out one of the press's 
oldest and most sophistical generalizations: 

There are many people who insist that not 
enough information has been published. This 
argument goes that if the American pulilic had 
been informed of the nation's true military posture, 
we would not now be short of airlift and sealift, 
missiles and military manpower. 

A grudging truce was called only when Secre- 
tary McNamara, at a press conference on Mav 26, 
issued a statement of information policy. This 
was how the New York Herald Tribune reported 
the event: 

Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara shows 
signs of coming out of his cocoon. . . . .After nearly 
four months of isolation and silence, the emerging 
chr\'salis displayed itself at a press conference 

At the same time there occurred, or, more 
accurately, there was dragged out, the Lemnitzer 
affair. It turned on a decision by the Secretary 
to vest i^rimary responsibility for research and 
development in Space with the Air Force. The 
directive was an extension of a previous order 
giving the Air Force responsibility for space 
boosters. It was worked \\\) by a study group 
under General Counsel Vance, which included 



three uniformed representatives ot the Services, 
and which consulted extensively over a period 
of seventeen days with Service and technical per- 
sonnel in the Pentagon. A draft was sent to 
Secretary McNamara on February 23. Next day 
he sent it out for comment by March 2 to the 
Service secretaries and chiefs, and to General 
Lyman Lemnitzer, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. 
On the basis of the comments, notably General 
Lemnitzer's, the Secretary revised the directive, 
to assure that the Army and Navy would keep 
the space projects presently in the works, and 
that they would have the right to a hearing on 
any future sjiacc projects they felt fitted specially 
into their bailiwick. On March 8, the directive 
was isstied. 

Four days later, on the basis of what was ap- 
parently a Navy leak, the Chicago Sun-Times 
carried an accovmt of General Lemnitzer's com- 
ments on the draft directive. It indicated cor- 
rectly that he had voiced misgivings about the 
content c^f the draft and about having to com- 
ment so swiftly, and that he had indicated a 
preference for consultation of the Joint Chiefs 
as a body, rather than individually by Service. 
But it did not indicate that his comments per- 
tained to the draft, and that some had been acted 
upon in the final directive. On the contrary, the 
story gave the imj^ression that the comments ap- 
plied to the directive, and that General Lemnit- 
zer was questioning the authority of the 
Secretary. The lead of the story said: 

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff has 
protested officially that the nation's leading mili- 
tary men are being edged out of crucial military 
decisions in the Kennedy Administration. 

The Defense Department immediately issued 
a corrective on the story. But the stir attracted 
the attention of Overton Brooks, chairman of 
the House Committee on Science and Astronau- 
tics, who is worried and rightly, that the Air 
Force may gobble up the civilian space agency. 
Mr. Brooks called hearings. 

That the directive in itself harbored no threat 
to the civilian space agency was speedily made 
clear. For the rest, the five days of hearings were 
a forum of discontent. The Service Secretaries 
were brought under pressure to show that they 
were doing their stuff for their respective Services. 
This, for example was one of the exchanges with 
Navy Secretary John Connally: 

Q. Am I correct in assuming the Navy resisted 
this directive? 

A. I would not use tlic word "resist," but we 
resisted it. 

One uniformed research chief had a chance to 
stake the claim that, without Space, the scientific 
talent in his Service would "atrophy on the vine." 
The committee chairman noted "the difficulty in 
obtaining the attendance at these hearings . . . 
of the Secretary of Defense," as well as "a certain 
foot-dragging in making available the military 
witnesses. . . ." Besides finding an entree for 
Congressional wit ("You should change the name 
of the Air Force because there is no air in space"). 
Congressman James Fulton opened up a fetching 
blind alley of infinite length. "You must define 
to me where space begins," he told Deputy Secre- 
tary Gilpatric. "Where does it begin?" 

Only with the appearance of General Lemnit- 
zer did the cackling cease— and then speedily. 
He could not ask, he said, for "better working 
relationships" with his civilian superiors in the 
Department: "I am constantly consulted. I see 
them on a daily basis and many times a day on 
some occasions." 

The issue of the directive, he settled in two 
words. This was the exchange: 

Q. Then I understand from what you say that 
you are supporting the directive? 
A. 1 am. 


ON balance it is clear that the Secretary 
has come off reasonably well. He has 
gained a good grasp of his subject. He has dem- 
onstrated a rare strength in dealing with the 
military. He has emerged virtually unscathed 
from direct challenges to specific recommenda- 
tions. On the larger political issues, he has at 
least held his own. 

At the same time, important weaknesses are 
apparent. McNamara has been slow to consult 
Congressional leaders before, rather than after 
decisions are made known. He has been unduly 
surprised by the political storms kicked up by 
issues barren of real content. In dealing with 
the press, he has not learned how to Hagertyize: 
the technique of pouring out a flood of innocu- 
ous information to the dual end of first keeping 
reporters busy and next rendering them grateful 
to the source of such abundant news. An artless 
belief in the powers of persuasion seems to affect . 
at least some of his staff. "If I know more than 
anybody else," one aide has said, "then I'll be 
able to imjjose my views." 

All these problems may seem minor. But while 
they remain unmastered, the Secretary will be 
vulnerable. For the story of McNamara and his 
enemies is only beginning. 

Hurjycr's Magazine, August 1961 

How to Play the 
Unemployment-insurance Game 


Countless ivorkers are now using legal 

loopholes to cheat the taxpayer — by phony 

retirements, "off-the-record" wages, 

and vacations at the government's expense. 

IT I S a few minutes bcloi e eight on a bleak 
winter morning in the New York shoe factory 
of which I am part-OAvner and general manager. 
The place is abnormally cjiiiet, except for the 
occasional clank of massive steel elevator doors 
opening and shutting. Men shuffle to the dress- 
ing-rooms to change their clothes, exchange per- 
functory greetings w'ith fellow ivorkers, and move 
on to their machines. At eight o'clock when the 
power switches arc thrown, the production line 
will start up with a roar. 

Suddenly a phone rings in the shoe-lasting 
room. The foreman takes the call from Joe 
Minati's wife. "He's got a hundred and one 
fever," she says, "and won't be in today." 

Joe is a roughing machine operator who works 
midway on the production line. His job is to 
buff the shoes' bottom surfaces, to which soles 
are then cemented. He alone handles this job 
on the eight hundred pairs the factory produces 

daily. Feeding shoes to Joe on the production line 
are twenty-five lasters and a dozen other workers. 
They can keep going without him, but by quit- 
ting time the racks will pile up from Joe's ma- 
chine to the lasters' benches. If he is out for 
more than a day, the lasters will have to be laid 
off. On the other side of Joe's station, the oper- 
ators are already hit by the log jam. Unfinished 
work may keep them busy for an hour or two. 
But with nothing funneling throvigh Joe's ma- 
chine, they will be through at ten o'clock. 

A fellow emplo)ee cannot be shifted over to 
Joe's skilled job, for an inexperienced man or 
one who is out of practice can ruin too many 
shoes. However, the plant superintendent must 
somehow keep our highly seasonal product mov- 
ing to the retail stores on time. So he implores 
tlic woikers down the line to co-operate antl 
hang around until the luiion office opens and a 
rej)laccmeni can be found. 

Shortly alici ten o'clock a substitute rougher 
—Henry Smith— apj^ears bearing a union pass. 
But he is not ready to start work until two 
hurdles are crossed— first, the matter of pay. As 
a piece worker, Joe was getting 2.5 cents a pair 
which amounts to about $2.50 an hour. Henry 
wants to be paid on a time basis— a reasonable 
recpiest, since a new man is bound to be slow 
until he "works into" the particular machine, 
product, and factory conditions. But the figure 


THE U N E xM P L O Y M E N T - 1 N S U R A N C E GAME 

he names— $3 an hour— seems a shght case of 
extortion. The going rate in the industry is 
$2.50. Since the superintendent is in a box he 
agrees to pay $3 and lK)pes that Henry will not 
be on the job long. 

The second hurdle is more vexatious. Henry 
is collecting unemployment insurance and wants 
the factory to pay him "off the record," that is, 
in cash. If the superintendent insists on putting 
him on the payroll, he won't work. To Henry 
it is a simple matter of arithmetic. As a skilled 
worker, his normal weekly wage is a hundred dol- 
lars or more. He is now collecting $50 a week in 
unemployment insuiance. For each d^y that he 
works he loses a quarter of his weekly benefits— 
$12.50. A six-hour stint at our roughing machine 
will give him a wage of $18, but his net will be 
only about $14 after deductions for federal and 
state income taxes. Social Security and disability 
taxes, and the cost of carfare, lunch, and coffee 
breaks. Subtracting the $12.50 lost from his un- 
employment benefit, he figures he will make only 
$1.50 by working for a day. 

What is the plant superintendent to do? If he 
threatens to rejjort the matter to the unemploy- 
ment-insurance office, Henry will know this is an 
empty bluff. Few employers will take the trouble 
to lodge a complaint which may well invohe a 
hearing and a wasted day away from the factQjy. 
Ninety times out of a hundred, the "help-out's" 
terms are accepted. 

To collect unemployment-insurance benefits 
while working is illegal, a plain case of fraud; 
but very fe^v w'orkers see it this ^vay. For ex- 
ample, many who are hired as permanent factory 
employees expect to work the first week or t^\'o 
"off the record. " Thus they continue to collect 
benefits until they decide if they like the job 
and qualify for it. Similarly, many workers who 
retire collect both Social Security payments and 
company or union-management pensions, as well 
as unemployment-insurance benefits for the full 
period allowed under law. 

\Vhen production is low in seasonal industries. 

Seth Levine is treasurer and production head 
of a shoe manufacturing firm in New York and 
chairman of the Union-Management Welfare Plan 
in his industry. He was educated as an engineer 
and economist at MIT and as a lawyer at George 
Washington University Law School, worked in the 
U. S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, and became Re- 
search Director of the CIO Maritime Committee. 
He has also been a registered CIO lobbyist, adviser 
to the U. 5. Worker Delegate to the ILO, and an 
economic consultant to industry and unions. 

workers who are employed for only a few hours 
a day commonly expect either to be paid oft the 
record or at some future time when full produc- 
tion resumes. Thus they can continue to collect 
their unemployment benefits during the slack 

A really shocking loophole was provided in 
1958 by a New York state law which was a 
statutory restatement of earlier administrative 
practice. This permits workers to collect un- 
employment benefits while on paid vacation if— 
for the week preceding or following it— they are 
"less than substantially fully employed." ("Fully 
employed" is defined as four days or more of 
work in a gi\en week.) Thus a worker who is 
laid off for two days, either before or after his 
vacation, is eligible for tax-free unemployment 
benefits for the two-week vacation period, 
amounting possibly to SI 00. 

News of this windfall ran through our factory 
like wildfire early in June last year. We were 
scheduled to close for vacation during the first 
two weeks in July. Except for a handful of new- 
comers, nearly all oiu" workers were entitled to 
two weeks' paid vacation. Yet there w'as scarcely 
one who did not spend the month of June de- 
vising ways to be laid off for a few days before 
or after vacation. As they figured it out, there 
seemed to be no point in working the week be- 
fore or after vacation for a mere SI 00, when, if 
they w'ere laid off, they could get three weeks 
of iniemployment benefits amounting to SI 35. 
(At that time the maximum benefit in New York 
was S45 per week. It has since been raised to 
$50.) Figuring in the taxes and costs of going to 
work, they made a profit of S50 with a third 
week of vacation thro^vn in. 

AND able" ? 

THIS kind of morality is no different than 
what is euphemistically called "tax avoid- 
ance " in the upper income brackets. It is a prod- 
uct of the ethical climate in which the business- 
man seeks to profit from a fire loss and the car 
owner tries to make money out of a collision. 
The worker too comes to think that he is "en- 
titled" to "his check." 

Although I am writing now as an employer, 
I believe I can claim to liave more than a one- 
sided view of the problem. I sj>ent ten years of 
my life as a labor economist and editor and 
was, in fact, an active labor lobbyist for the un- 
emj)loyment-insurance laws thai are now on our 
statute books. I am keenly antl personally aware 



of the value of unemployment insurance both in 
alleviating the hardships of the man out of work 
and sparing him the indignity of "relief." 

I also believe that business— particularly the 
small concern like mine— has been one of the 
chief beneficiaries of unemployment insurance. 
Without this economic stabilizer, our company, 
for example, would no longer have flourishing 
accounts in cities where many workers are un- 
employed. It also insures a steady labor supply 
for seasonal industries. My quarrel is not with 
the system but with the distortion of its purpose. 

The basic trouble is that workers and their 
unions, government officials, and many business- 
men have forgotten that this is an "Insurance" 
system. "It is not 'relief'," says the Claimant's 
Booklet of Information issued in New York. 
"You do not have to prove you need it. It is 
yours as a matter of right provided you meet 
the conditions fixed by the law." 

The key condition is this: "It is for people 
who are unemployed, who regidarly work for a 
living, who are ready, willing, and able to take 
new jobs and who are actively looking for jobs." 
All states have similar provisions. In my ex- 
perience, however, most workers collecting bene- 
fits are "ready, willing, and able" only if the 
jobs they find are permanent, steady, and at 
optimum rates of pay. I ha\'e \et to meet a man 
who would rather work part-time for .S50 a week 
at his regular hourly pay than collect $50 in 

I have been amazed by the skill of unschooled 
and non-English-speaking workers in calculating 
gross potential earnings minus taxes, traveling, 
and other working costs, as compared with avail- 
able unemployment benefits. Their prowess 
would do credit to a junior accountant. 

"You are expected to look for a job on your 
own and keep a record of all your job-finding 
efforts, including names and addresses of em- 
ployers to whom you have applied, dates of ap- 
plication, and results; and a record of other 
efforts such as response to ad\ertisements, visits 
to union halls, etc., and results," says the Claim- 
ant's Booklet. This all-important "search for 
work" requirement is, in practice, a dead letter. 
Dozens of claimants have told me that the un- 
employment office makes only the most peifunc- 
tory inquiries about their job-finding efforts. Us- 
ually, a mere visit to the union hall suffices. It 
is a curious fact that our company, which is well 
known for steady employment and growth, 
rarely receives a call from the many unemployed 
at the union hall. The only job seekers who ap- 
pear at our door are newcomers— usually immi- 

grants from Italy or the West Indies or refugees 
from Central and Eastern Europe. 

In New Jersey, the law now provides that an 
unemployed worker need not actively seek work 
in order to collect benefits if he is temporarily 
laid off for a period of four weeks or less. An- 
other proviso of the New Jersey law permits the 
State Director to modify the active "search for 
work" requirement if in his judgment economic 
conditions warrant it. In effect, this encourages 
an unemployed worker to subsist on his benefit 
checks rather than seek temporary employment, 
and to bide his time when recession strikes 
rather than press his search for work. 

The dismal truth seems to be that no one 
today believes it is better to earn a dollar than 
to collect one. Work is only preferable if it pays 
twice as well. 

In a recent case, for instance, a referee ruled 
that our trimming cutters could refuse work 
which they had often performed in the past at 
their regular rate of $3.31 an hour and still 
collect unemployment insurance because "the 
taking of inventory was not a function within 
the scope of the duties of the trimming cutters. 
They were not hired with the understanding 
that they would be required to execute such 
work. The collective-bargaining agreement did 
not impose upon them the duty to perform this 

Then, there was the matter of a telejjhonc- 
operator-receptionist with whom our company 
decided to part. We were notified that she was 
collecting unemployment insinance but we as- 
sumed it would last only a week or two. How- 
ever, the weeks dragged on and to our surprise 
she still had no job. This was strange, as she was 
adept at the board, pretty, sociable— an alto- 



gether employable receptionist. Later her friends 
told me that she "had fixed up her apartment" 
while on benefits by listing herself as a recep- 
tionist-shoe-model. She had, it is true, on rare 
occasions displayed a new shoe in our showroom, 
though this was hardly her job. She put it this 
way herself: "I've been working for several years. 
Why shouldn't I collect?" 

This is a familiar kind of reasoning. One 
hears it among businessmen, workers, profes- 
sional people, or housewives. But the fact is that 
unemployment insurance is intended as com- 
pensation for a real loss according to the terms 
of a prior bargain. It is not a bonus for years 
of steady work. Nor— as some workers seem to 
think— was unemployment insur.-ince conceived 
as an income supplement. This notion unfor- 
tunately has become widespread. 

For example, we normally employ three 
stitchers at a wage of about 3130 each or a total 
of $390. When business is slack, we have only 
an aggregate of $260 worth of stitching work per 
week. There is a share-the-work clause in our 
union-management contract. But our stitchers 
are not willing to continue work for .$86.67 each. 
Instead, they expect to rotate^ with one of the 
three out on unemployment insurance each week. 
By this arrangement, a man works two weeks at 
$130 per week, and then collects $50 unemploy- 
ment insurance which is tax-free. His take for 
three weeks is the ec^uivalent of about $320 in 
wages as compared to only $260 under a share- 
the-work plan. 

What harm has been done? Eventually, of 
course, someone must pay the bill. When un- 
warranted unemployment-insurance benefits are 
collected, the extra tax burden falls solely on the 

Except for Alaska, every state in the Union ties 
the individual employer's tax rate to the recent 
level of unemployment among his workers. In 
New York, which is typical, the rate varies in 
relation to such factors as benefits paid to former 
workers, the employer's total payroll, and the 
adequacy of reserves in the state fund. An in- 
dividual company's tax rate may range from 
nothing to 3.2 per cent of the payroll. 

To be specific, last year our business paid 
$20,660 in unemployment-insurance taxes. We 
have two hundred employees and thus our rate 
was just over $100 per man. To meet the cur- 
rent unemployment crisis, the Congress promptly 
approved President Kennedy's jjroposal to ex- 
tend unemployment benefits (or as long as an 
additional thirteen weeks. These benefits will 
be financed by an additional tax of O.i per cent. 

As a result, my company's unemployment-in- 
surance tax bill will rise to $23,000 this year, 
which for us is a substantial sum, amounting to 
an added cost of over 6.5 cents per man-hour. 
Half of my own working year is spent in trying 
to save a quarter of a cent here and there in 
labor costs. 

Across the country during the past months un- 
employment covered by state insurance has 
varied between 3.2 million and 3.4 million. This 
is one million above the 1960 figure. Even more 
disturbing is the fact that long-term unemploy- 
ment is up 65 per cent. The action taken by 
Congress was designed to help workers in de- 
pressed areas, and those in industries severely 
curtailed by automation and technological 
change. There can be no doubt that work is 
being desperately sought by millions of bread- 
winners—auto workers in Detroit, steelworkers 
in Pittsburgh, ore miners in Minnesota, coal 
miners in West Virginia, textile workers in New 
England and the South. 

It is to safeguard the rights of these victims 
of recession and automation, to protect the sol- 
vency of state funds, and to give business a 
chance to survive the ever-increasing costs of 
production that the widespread abuses of the un- 
employment-insurance systems must be stopped. 


THIS problem is difficult to attack, for the 
lax practices I have described are common- 
place across the country. The following ideas 
might well be explored: 

1. Joint Tax Liability. The unemployment- 
insurance tax is now paid solely by the employer, 
unlike Social Security and in some states dis- 
ability insurance, to which both employers and 
workers contribute. Should workers participate 
in the financing, not of past, but at least of fu- 
ture improvements in unemployment-insurance 
benefits? Would this make the worker more 
aware of the cost of financing benefits and of 
the fact that it is an insurance system? 

2. Revitalized State Employment Services. In 
the last analysis, jobs and not benefits are what 
most workers want, and what the economy needs. 
Yet far too little money and effort are spent in 
job finding. State Employment Services should 
have more placement officers canvassing local fac- 
tories and offices. They should survey the types 
of workers needetl by different establishments, 
build a reference file of possible job openings 
for the unemployed, and educate employers. 
Most businessmen regard the State Employment 



Service merely as a source of unskilled labor. 
I have never been visited by a rejjresentative 
of the State Employment Service seeking to place 
unemployed workers. However, I have been 
visited by a representative from the New York 
City Welfare Department, asking us to hire 
workers from the relief rolls. Why not an active, 
proselytizing State Employment Service? 

3. Assistance for Small Business. A big cor- 
poration can afford a full-time expert to mini- 
mize its imemployment-insurance tax burden 
and to police the erroneous or dishonest collec- 
tion of benefits. But a small employer is a babe 
in the woods. I, for instance, have worked for 
the U.S. Department of Labor and the national 
CIO. Yet I have committed costly blunders as, 
for example, a needless charge amouiuing to 
hundreds of dollars because we gave oral rather 
than written instructions for a two-day shutdown 
to take inventory. The state is willing to answer 
inquiries but does not proffer help. 

In contrast, our workmen's-compensation-in- 
surance carrier regularly sends a safety engineer 
to visit our plant. He reviews the nature and 
cause of accidents and gives valuable advice on 
prevention. The State Employment Ser\icc 
should likewise help small companies to hold 
their unemjiloyment-insinance costs in check. 

4. Retraining and Relocation for the Chron- 
ically Unemployed. One hears nuich about re- 
lief for the chronically unemployed, but little 
talk of cures. The fact is that when a worker is 
unemployed for as long as twenty-six weeks, he 
will probably never again find a job in his cus- 
tomary trade or industry, or in the same occupa- 
tion in his home locality. 

What is being done to retrain (n relocate 
such workers? Virtually nothing. Indeed, the 
policy of the typical State Employment Service 

encourages the worker to refuse all employment 
that is not fully equivalent to his last job. This 
is a "good cause" for refusing a job; as is "an 
unreasonable distance from home; or if travel 
to and from the place of employment costs sub- 
stantially more than travel to your last job, 
unless the expense is j^rovided for." 

Such restrictions against forced employment 
were born of a legitimate desire to prevent the 
unemployment-insurance system from destroying 
labor standards and from undermining the vi- 
tality of the economy. But has their validity 
been checked against present-day circumstances? 
Are ^\e paying enough attention to the re-em- 
ploNuient of the luicmployed, or is our attention 
exclusi\el) foctiscd on compensation for the 
losses restdting from unemployment? 

An immediate example which might be widely 
studied is the path bla/ed by the Commonwealth 
of Massachusetts. In 1958, its unemployment- 
insurance law was amended to provide eighteen 
weeks of benefits to unemployed workers attend- 
ing \'ocational schools "as a means of realizing 
employment." The cost is charged against the 
general fund. This plan might well serve as a 
model for all state legislatures and I woidd like 
to see it widely copied. 

The Massachusetts j^lan was given national 
recognition in President Kennedy's June 13th 
message to Congress proposing extensions in im- 
emjiloyment-insurance coverage and benefits. 
Among other things the President recommended 
that benefits be made available to workers re- 
training for new occupations. This is a sensible 
and practical idea and I hope this phase of the 
President's recommendation will be adopted 
promj)tly by the Congress. 

Other parts of the program would make per- 
manent the current temporary extension of un- 
employment benefits to as much as thirty-nine 
weeks, would induce stales to raise the level of 
unemplo)mcnt benefits, and would bring thice 
million new workers under coverage. 

Financing the President's program would re- 
Cjuire a substantial increase in j>ayroll taxes. For 
examjjle, I estimate that, uniler his draft bill, 
my company's unemj)lo)inent-insurance tax 
woidd rise over the next decade from its current 
level of $20,660 per atmum to over |35,000. This 
is no small burden for the average employer. 

To prevent our unemj^loyment-insurance sys- 
tem from becoming an intolerable economic 
buiden, and to maintain its social usefulness, 
surely it is imperati\'e that we attack the cor- 
rosive and wasteful jiractices which now under- 
mine its high purpose. 

Harper's Magazine, August 1961 

The Man Who 

A Story by JACK COPE 

Drawings by Frederick E. Banbery 

HE C A M E up out of the mist at dusk to- 
ward the veranda steps. The farmer was 
scraping the mud off his boots on a sharp iron 
scraper and he turned slowly hearing the soft 
footsteps on the wet ground. As their eyes met, 
tlic Zuhi raised his arm in a grand and gaunt 
sahitc. "Inkosana!" 

His greatcoat was an ancient military khaki 
darkened with grease and ending in tatters 
around his bare calves, and in his left hand he 
trailed a knobkerrie and a stick, as well as a small 
branch of wild olive with faded didl-green leaves. 
At his side, carrying a small blanket bundle was 
a barefooted boy who looked enough like him 
to be unmistakably his son. He did not speak 
again but waited in a courteous silence until the 
white man should either recognize him or ask 
who he was. 

He was so striking in all the singleness of his 
dignity, stripped down by illness and poverty 
and anxiety to the last degree, that the farmer 
felt a keen pang of sympathy, searching the 
ravaged face for recognition. They were of the 
same age and height, both tall graceful men, but 
the black one looked doubly aged beside the 
ruddy weathered features of the other. 

Glancing between father and son the farmer 
found his clue suddenly, and out of the shadow 
of thirty years a face came back to him of a hand- 
some youth. "Ha, it is you. Ma tan, I see!" 

The Zulu raised his head and a quick and 
grateful smile bloomed on him. His white teeth 
shone and the heavy lines were loosened for a 
moment. "Inkosana, you arc one who seldom 
makes a mistake." 

"1 wouldn't say that." 

"You have grown more like your father, and 
his voice speaks again in you. But I see that you 
carry a scar." 

The white man ran his fingers over a deep scar 
Irom the corner of his eye and disappearing in 
his hair. "The iron of a cannon hit me, in the 
war. They nearly buried me." 

"Instead, you buried your enemies," Matan 
said. No greater mark of honor could a man bear 
than the wound of battle on his face. 

"I wouldn't say that," the farmer repeated. 
"No, but you are ill and cold. Go and warm 
yourself and get some food. Then we can speak 

"First 1 will tell you, Inkosana, that I have 
come to fetch home my father." 

"How's that?" the farmer asked quietly, hid- 
ing his surprise. "Your father has lain buried 
here for thirty years." 

"I have come for his spirit." 

They both were aware that this opened up be- 
tween them such imponderable questions that 
they said nothing for a few moments until with 
another grave salute Matan went off, with his 
son, to the compound of the farm laborers. 

After the evening meal the farmer's wife was 
in the kitchen storeroom packing eggs for market. 
She worked quickly filling the cardboard cartons 
while a young black woman in a scarlet head- 
cloth and blue pinny deftly washed and dried 
any that were marked. Two incandescent lamps 
hissed steadily and shed a strong white light. 
The storeroom beams were hung with hams and 
sides of smoked bacon, and phalanxes of jams 
and bottled preserves were ranged along the 
shelves. The women talked softly while they 
worked and sometimes laughed. 

The farmer came in to ask about some ac- 
counts and at the same time Matan appeared 
at the kitchen door. He had left his sticks 
but still held the branch of wild olive. In the 
strong light his face was like a deeply carved rock 
and the feverish black eyes alone betrayed him. 
The small boy came behind him, peering round 
the skirts of his ragged coat. 

"Come inside, Matan," the farmer said, and 
turning to his wife: "This is the man." 

The Zulu greeted her in the same majestic 
way and she answered, "San'bona." 

"San'bona," said the black maid and went on 
with her work. 

Matan came closer into the lamplight and 
squatted down on his hams in a ceremonial man- 
ner. The farmer asked where he lived and how 
were his family and at this he looked troubled. 


several times passing his hand o\ er his eyes. He 
had lived in many places since he had left the 
Thorn Country. Now he had found a place again 
in the umSuluzi valley and had a garden to cul- 
tivate but no oxen yet and no plow. 

"And your family?" the farmer repeated, think- 
ing of his own three children tucked safe in their 
beds and his eldest son away for the first term 
at boarding school. When he glanced again at 
Matan he sensed a quiver on the rigid lips and 
he was appalled to see that tears had come to the 
sunken, burning eyes. 

"This is my family," the Zulu said, reaching 
out and touching his son with a bony finger. 
"All the others I have lost. Two sons and a 
daughter I lost. My wife I lost. But this one 
is left to me and now I have a place again and 
across the umSuIuzi stream I can see where my 
father's kraal stood." 

"Oh, so you are on Dune's?" 

"I am on Dune's." 

"Why did you not come to me? I would give 
you a place. You may build again where your 
father's huts were and plow his old lands. All 
those you gave up when you left." 

Matan thought over his answer and after clear- 
ing his throat he said: "I am not ready. Now it 
is this that my heart tells me to say. When I had 
come to manhood and we were of an age my 
father worked for yours." 

"I remember Makofin well. I remember the 
accident. I went to call the doctor and we rode 
out on our horses in the night." 

"Inkosana, it was the long red wagon that cut 
him nearly in two. I was walking behind and 
my father carried the whip. He slipped as he 
put one foot on the wagon pole and he fell under 
the wheels. The oxen pulled the wagon over him 
with a load of corn and I dragged him out from 
under the Avheels— my father. He was dying. I 
could see." 

"He did not cry out." 

"In the night he died. Our people buried him 
here. Inkosana, child of your father, think of 

Jack Cope grew up on a farm in Natal, South 
Africa, and became a newspaperman in Cape Town. 
His three novels have been published in England, 
and his collection of short stories carries the title 
of his first story published in this magazine, "The 
Tame Ox." His work is known all over Europe and 
in 1960 he was elected a Life Fellow of the Interna- 
tional Institute of Arts and Letters. He edits South 
Africa's only English-language literary magazine, 
"Contrast," and has completed his fourth novel, 
"Dream Smoke." 



mine too. He has been lying here for thirty 
years under the cold trees of the forest, in this 
cold country. He has been alone. Where this 
red wagon called Satan is working and its trek- 
cattle that killed my father, I cannot stay. I 
went off and 1 have been everywhere. 1 have 
been to the Gold Mines, I worked in the sugar 
cane. I married and found a place with the 
Ntulis but wherever I have gone evil followed. 

"Evil has followed me," he said again hollowly 
after a long pause. 

"A son was born and I was glad. Then again, 
another son. I did not believe it. I thought the 
evil had left me. My first-born withered and 
shriveled to a stick and he died. Then I believed 
it again. I took up my goods and drove my cattle 
away and always the evil has followed me. . . . 
No, why tell you all that happened? Now I am 
left with this stripling—" 

He looked round for the boy and at last 
caught sight of him through the kitchen door 
doing a lively little dance in front of the stove. 
He was a mischievous boy, sprightly and difficult 
to handle. Often he had to be given a cuff on the 
head and then tears burst from his eyes. But a 
moment later he was dancing and singing again. 

The father turned away with a shrug and then, 
as if by an afterthought, he said: "So then I have 
come to bring my father home." 

The two white people waited in a strained way 
but the black girl gazed at him goggle-eyed. He 
had expected it, but now it devoured his insides. 
He went on, stumbling somewhat over his words, 
to say he had been to one who knew of these 
things. The man had him beat the ground, and 
he had thrown bones. He was a witch doctor— 
isangoma. He said the evil had been sent by 
Makofin, father of Matan, because he lay two 
days' journey away, alone in the cold drizzling 
trees; two days from his home which was in the 
Thorn Country. There he had owned cattle and 
grown corn and the sun was hot on his body. 
The witch doctor had cooked medicine and 
dipped the leaves of a branch into his medicine 
pot. He had said: "Watch one night by the 
grave." Makofin's ghost would climb out of the 
grave, he had said, and settle in the leaves of the 
branch. The son must then carry the ghost home 
to the Thorn Country in silence, unbroken si- 
lence, and bury it there. Peace would come at 

last to him. One word spoken by him during this 
journey home would send the ghost crying back 
to its cold grave. 

He drew out the branch of wild olive from 
under his coat and raising it he said: "On this 
I will take my father home." 

The farmer and his wife glanced at each other 
but the maid flung up her hands with a cry of 
fear and darted out of the room. He took this 
sign from her without emotion and scarcely 
moved his head. Perhaps in his blood this sign 
of absolute belief worked profoundly, but it was 
with the other two that he was concerned as he 
put down the branch and tried to compose him- 

He did not look up at them, not because they 
might despise the witch doctors or that he feared 
their disbelief. His great terror lay in his own 
doubt. He took out his snuffbox and his hands 
shook as he uncorked it and put in his hand a 
small heap of snuff. Then, clearing his throat 
and swallowing, he found the calm he needed to 
state the point of his visit: 

Perhaps it was beyond a man to make a long 
journey without uttering a word. His lips coidd 
open in his sleep, or without thinking he might 
say something to a passer-by or to his son who 
would not remember always to speak correctly. 
If a truck were driving to the Thorn Country 
... in short, if the farmer could take him home 
with his father's shadow and his son, the three 
of them, it would be well with them. 

He waited for the reply, greatly perturbed, 
and took his time with another pinch of snuff. 
He could hear his boy in the other room, singing 
to himself, while the two spoke low in their own 
language. Then the woman asked: "Matan, did 
you pay the isangoma?" 

"It is the custom," he mumbled as if angry at 
such a question. 

"What did you pay him?" 

"A cow," he said shortly, and then added: "It 
was my last cow." 

"And do you really believe in this?" 

It was the question that crawled under his 
skin, that pestered and devoured him, and with 
a sound like a groan he threw back his head. 

"Inkosazana, what else can I do?" 

"I don't know. I did not know your father as 
my husband did, but would his soul follow you 



with evil? Would you wish evil on your own 

"Let it be!" he said wildly. 

She was on the point of saying more, so cool 
in her knowledge and good will that she would 
drive a hole into his heart if only to enlighten 
him. But the man put a hand on her arm to 
quiet her. "Matan, I am not going to the Thorn 
Country. My truck is broken down; it's at the 
garage to be repaired. But you can go with the 
wagon in the morning and from the crossroads 
the milk truck will take you to the railway. And 
so you can ride in the train down to the Thorns 
and get home in one day." 

The Zulu averted his face without a word. He 
had only a few shillings knotted in a cloth and 
the rail fare would leave him penniless. His son 
had come to the door and heard what the plan 
was, and he skipped delightedly at the thought 
of a ride in the milk truck and in a train, marvels 
he had never enjoyed. The father stood up 
stiffly and saluted the white people. He went out 
leaning one hand on the child's shoulder and 
with the other carrying the bough from which 
he had not parted since he left home. 

"What can you do with them?" the woman 
said. "Good heavens— the idea!" 

"You know, I had an eerie feeling always at 
Makofin's grave. I can remember them burying 
him sewn all crouched up in a blanket, and they 
put in some food and pots and a knobkerrie and 
assagai to see him on his way. Makofin was a 
hell-fire fighting man and the others were scared 
enough of him alive but ten times more scared 
of him dead. The boys are going to be glad 
about Matan taking the old man's ghost home. 
They never liked the grave down in the forest." 

"He looks so ill," she said. "Fierce but some- 
how tortured, eh? Worried to death." 

He merely glanced at her and shrugged. His 
way with the Zulus was to get along as well as 
he could without bumping headlong into them 
on dangerous ground, and he did not push things 
down their throats. It had been silly of her, he 
thought, to ask that question. How could you 
ask a man whether he really believed in a thing 
that went to the center of his life? "About this 
account with the vet . . ." he began. 

MATAN walked down in the dark from 
the house of the white people and he still 
leaned one hand on his child. A moon was slid- 
ing in and out of the clouds and the wind blew 
cold and damp. Passing the open shed, he saw 
the wagon. The farm used tractors and motor 
vehicles now, but they kept the old trek-wagon 

standing there with its heavy iron-ringed pole 
slung up as if ready to roll out again on its fatal 
way. Ever since it had cut his father almost in 
two it had been called Satan and the men had 
a kind of awe for it. He went past, looking fear- 
fully into the dark mouth of the shed, and he 
said nothing but listened to the chatter of the 
boy about the tasty food he had been given 
in the kitchen. 

In the compound Matan joined the ring of 
men sitting around the fire. He was of their 
clan and they were all tied by ancient blood 
bonds one to another, yet he had noticed how 
his entry had put a hush on them. They offered 
him food and went on dipping their clean fin- 
gers in the black iron cooking pots, but they 
were like chickens when a hawk has flown over. 
The little boy edged close to a pot and soon he 
was eating ravenously, scooping out hot lumps 
of tasty steamed corn and potatoes and sweet 

Matan ate nothing and he did not speak. 
Seated on a polished wood block he leaned 
toward the leaping flames of the fire. He had 
tried to conceal as much as possible the wild- 
olive branch and had it under the folds of his 
coat tails. Presently he opened his coat and bared 
his bony chest to the heat. He had a skin amulet 
hanging at his throat by a blackened string and 
a medicine horn from some small antelope stuck 
as an earring through the lobe of one ear, and 
with his forbidding, deep-furrowed face shining 
like oiled wood, he looked to the others hardly 
a man at all, but a shadowing of death itself. 
Some of the men got up and went out, and from 
under his heavy brow he shot them wild, des- 
perate glances. 

He waited a little longer, reluctant to go down 
into the night and the forest, and occasionally 
he looked at his son still busy at the cooking pot. 
When the boy could no longer force another 
mouthful down his throat but sat back with his 
stomach drum-tight, Matan told him sharply to 
find a place among the boys and go to sleep. He 
went outside and came back with his hands and 
small shining face wet from a good rinsing at the 
tap. He was thrown a few clean grain bags with 
which he made himself a bed on the clay floor 
and soon lay rolled from head to foot like a small 
mummy in his blanket. 

Suppressing a sigh, Matan got up and but- 
toned his greatcoat close about him. He armed 
himself with his stick and knobkerrie. The 
others pretended not to notice his going. By 
beaten footpaths he picked a way past cornlands 
and large fields standing in young kale and tur- 




I HELP them out, I help them out, 
All those whose exits are in doubt 
From the seli-extruded spirals 
Ot their own ingrowing morals— 

Those whose paths are set with shadows 
And the snakes breed in their meadows 
And the thoughtweed binds the gate, 
I de-infest their whole estate: 

And those whose skiffs capsize at sea 
And cannot swim, their legs not Free, 
But in confusion look to drown, 
I hook them out and rub them down. 

Old gentlemen who can't stop j)inching 
Whatever bottom looks like flinching, 
I teach them how to slow that car 
And put a handbrake on desire: 

And couples whose sex is in the head 
And therefore will not go to bed 
From a mistaken sense of sin, 
I help them in, I help them in. 

A fig for imaginary evils: 

I fight against the real devils 

Of hashed-up circuits, jammcd-down switches 

And telegraph poles in the ditches. 

These bolt the doors and windows; then 
The creeping damps and rots begin. 
The worm grows wily in the wall 
And down the family portraits fall; 

I am the hero with the axe 

Who thrusts the fresh air through the cracks; 

I sweep the flues, I scour the drains 

And free the gutters to the rains: 

While those who stumble in the Avide 
W^ithout-door tempest, void of pride, 
Uiitrousered, why, I fetch galo'hes 
And plastic hats, and mackintoshes. 

All their ills away I take: 
Then why does my own sf)r(? head ache? 
Look liow the fish kajj Id ihc lake! 
Then why does my own sore hc;i(l ache? 

nips for winter cattle feed, the ground falling all 
the while toward the fringe of trees. The moon 
gave a vagtie sense of light in the sky, but once 
inside the trees the darkness became so close that 
it seemed he had to push his way through it. 
Often he missed the path, groping a pace at a 
time and stumbling on roots or feeling suddenly 
the rasp of a creeper round his neck. 

He knew where the grave was and approaching 
it he crept even slower. His eyes were strained 
open to catch the least hint of light. A rustle 
went faintly through the upper foliage and from 
the occasional touches of cold on his face he 
knew a fine rain had started. Big drops fell with 
a lone splash from the trees on his head or down 
his neck. Then he was at the grave, sensing the 
hollowness of the dark clearing around him. He 
was confused at hearing loud noises, only they 
were in his head and the forest was quiet save 
for the slow shudder of drops on the leaves. 

He put his sticks and the olive branch 
under one arm and, with some difficulty over 
the trembling of his hands, he managed to 
strike a match. For a moment the flare of light 
chased away shadows into the thicket, and fell 
on the pyramid of earth and stones under which 
his father lay buried. Before the match flickered 
out he saw the green moss and grass on the gra\e 
motmd and the long trailing beards of lichen 
drooping from the trees; the ring of stones sur- 
rounding the base of the mound was half-btiried 
in green mold. A wet and dreary and silent 
place, and any spirit lying drowned and bitter 
under the tree roots would writhe in its suffo- 
cation. If it were true! It was starting in him 
again; at the foot of his father's grave itself the 
doubt came at him and a cold band pressed 
round his forehead and temples. 

He stood for a while and took hold on himself. 
He must not dare think such thoughts. He must 
follow the witch doctor to the letter— it was his 
last resort. What else could he do? Ai! With a 
start he remembered he had used those same 
words to the white woman. She had asked if 
he believed. Womanlike, she had put her finger 
in the eye of his sore. What if he did doubt? He 
must keep to the finest hair of the isangoma's in- 
structions and, provided the truth lay there, 
then all must be well. He would regain his 
health, cattle again would stand in his kraal, and 
his child grow up like a cornstalk to the sun. 
And if the white people were right? Could there 
be two truths? 

He tried to heave himseli up out of the claw- 
ing blackness, straightened his back, and raised 
his head. "Father, I am here," he said. His breast 


at once ielt calmer, and he began to make prepa- 
rations for the watch through the night. He 
edged forward until his sandal touched the 
stones of the grave; then he struck one more 
match and, keeping it alight in his cupped hand, 
made his way to the nearest tree. There he 
settled himself with his back to the moss-covered 
roots and, tucking his coat as well as possible 
around his knees, he took the olive branch in one 
hand. A cold drop coursed down his forehead 
and nose. It was no longer raining and he found 
to his dread that he was in a heavy sweat. 

He sighed and muttered to himself. He would 
feel better if something came to share his watch, 
a bushbuck or perhaps an ox or even a hare. But 
it was a lonely place and a little-used path. Cattle 
kept the track open and maybe at night the 
small denizens of the trees would dart along it 
frightened by the coughing of a leopard. He 
would welcome a leopard. 

The air seemed to become warmer and then 
the clouds opened and moonlight came filtering 
down through the treetops into the clearing. He 
coidd make out the shape of the grave mound 
and at a distance the pale streaks against the 
black which he knew, though they seemed to 
be moving, were tree trunks. He had to close 
his eyes to escape the appearance that the trees 
were moving about. After some time had passed 
he heard the growl of thunder and he thought 
he understood that strange wave of warmth and 
closeness that was hammering against his chest 
as if with soft fists. 

Cold, rain— rain and cold, did it never stop 
here in the thin high veld? "My father, I have 
left you a long while," he said, with his voice 
croaking. An answer came in another rumble of 
thunder. He waited, thinking of his father, and 
he began speaking to him. "My father, Makofin, 
son of Poli, why have you come as a thief and 
taken everything from me? It was not so before. 
You were a fighting man and born of great blood 
and your word was respected. Did they leave 
you too little food for your journey and have 
you eaten grasshoppers on the bare hill? My 
father, if you kill me and my last son, who will 
be left to pray and comfort you— what home will 
you return to when you journey up from there 
below to see the sun again?" 

He spoke in the form of the old prayers but 
in his blood was the feeling that he should be 
given some sign, and because no sign came he 
was left hollow and beaten. Flashes of lightning 
were flickering palely among the trees and the 
thunder groaned nearer, thudding on the ground 
as if some great beast were on the trail. 


The wind came tearing down with a great roar 
into the forest and thunder ripped and boomed 
in the sky striking trees and hilltops while the 
rain fell in huge dark waves. Gullies of water 
poured and washed against him and he crouched 
more into himself, wet and shivering and almost 
unconscious of his purpose in being there. 

TH E rain passed and the wind died and 
silence and darkness came back over the 
forest. He thought of his father's ghost in the 
underworld shivering at an empty pot and a 
dead fire while the water from the cold earth 
dripped muddily over him. Alone he was too, 
and malignant, and his eyes glaring red like 
those of a man wild with death or sorrow. 

The vision was so clear and striking to his 
inner mind that he thought it a dream and he 
had been asleep or was still sleeping. The branch 
of wild olive seemed to be moving in his hand 
and with a thrill of horror he dropped it, then 
grabbed at it, feeling about in the dark in case 
it should be snatched away. When he had seized 
it again with a shaking hand he was sure that it 
moved of its own and so great a desire filled him 
to run for his life that his legs began twitching 
like a dog in its hunting dreams. Closing his 
eyes, he forced his head and back against the 
tree until his muscles stopped jerking and he 
could no longer feel any movement, not in his 
legs nor in the twig nor the hand that held it. 

He opened his eyes vaguely and was staring 
upwards. There was light, faint light. The moon 
had come through and was dropping a dim ray 
among the still treetops. Here and there was 
the mere phantom of a tree trunk. Slowly he 
searched into the cave of the clearing and tlien 
fixed on a place above the grave. He stared for 
a long time, not believing his senses, blinked 
slowly and looked again. Over the grave stood 
a large white shape, there was no mistake. And 
as the moon ran out of the clouds and its light 
seeped down to the earth the shape took clearer 
form and he could see two dark hollows where 
it would have eyes. 

"Makofin, son of Poli," he grated out, though 
his lips and tongue were almost paralyzed. "Ha! 
do you come to turn your son's bones to water! 
Come with me home to the umSuIuzi." 

He could now see two strange shapes like great 
horns rising above it and in a swaying movement 
the head shook. A cry came from Matan's throat. 
He tried to struggle to his feet, rolled to one 
side and fell. His body shivered all over and a 
foam hissed from his mouth and nostrils. 

The moon was covered by a dark cloud bank 



and complete darkness crept over the veld and 
into every crevice of the dripping forest. Far 
down at the foot of a tall tree the black man lay 
fighting for breath and oblivious of everything. 
The owls flew down from their roost in a ham- 
merkop's nest, a leopard made its coughing grunt 
as it padded along the trail. A rustling and 
crashing sounded among the trees, heavy beating 
of hooves, and then the return of silence. 

Still the man lay on his side and ants began 
to crawl on him. At the first lightening of the 
sky he stirred and tried to open his eyes. He 
felt blinded, scratched and clawed at his face 
and then screamed out. His face was covered 
with ants. He rolled and whipped over on the 
grass like an eel and by brushing and beating at 
his face with his coat sleeves he cleaned himself 
and then began to kill off and shake the ants 
out of his coat. His limbs felt weak and he was 
imnerved in every fiber of his body. But in spite 
of his dread of the place he raised his hand as 
steadily as he could and said: "Makofin, son of 
Poli, I came in peace. Now you too, be no thief. 
To me, your son, give back peace." He gathered 
up his sticks and, with one fearful glance at it, 
took up also the wild-olive branch. 

Then he set ofi^ to return to the compound, but 
walked slowly like an old man. Passing beyond 
the grave, he noticed in the turf the hoofprints 
of an ox. He leaned heavily on his stick, pausing 
there for some moments, deeply shocked, and all 
his doubts came back with a new agony. When 
had the ox stood there— during the night, or 
before? There was water in one of the hoofmarks. 
His head was nodding as with an illness when he 
started again, and at sunrise he arrived back at 
the compound. 

MAT A N crouched like some old tree trunk 
among the milk cans on the wagon. It 
seemed that in contrast to his gloom and silence 
and the awe he inspired in the other farm work- 
ers, the small boy had become all the more 
sprightly. He danced and skipped alongside the 
cart, threw stones at a flock of starlings, whistled 
gaily or sang to himself at every step. 1 'ie farm 
workers kept wide of the man whom tliey be- 
lieved to be carrying the ghost of his father but 
the boy had almost taken command now that 
he had the task of guiding him home. At the 
crossroads, Matan transferred in silence to the 
heavy milk truck while loud explanations were 
made and shouts of ama/cment exchanged with 
the loading ( rcw. Then the truck started off; the 
boy shrilled and laughed and opened his mouth 
to feel the roar of wind in his ciieeks. 

At the railhead the child made all the explana- 
tions while his father fumbled open his damp 
cloth and handed over one by one the shillings 
and florins to pay the fare. Then, aboard the 
train, the boy dashed up and down the corridors, 
hung out on the balcony rails, and scrambled 
over people's feet in the crowded compartment 
where his father sat, stony and silent with lips 
sewn together in a terrible bitterness. In a shrill 
voice the boy explained that the olive branch 
had been doctored and on it was roosting none 
other than the ghost of his grandfather. 

With one accord the passengers yelled out and 
made a concerted dash to get out at the door, 
struggling and cursing and knocking the child 
over in their hurry to escape. When the last of 
them had disappeared, there, lying in the middle 
of the floor, was a silver sixpence. The boy 
picked it up with a chirp of pleasure and ran 
after the gabbling passengers. He tossed it in 
the air and caught it, shouting: "Who lost this? 
Who lost this?" They were too angry or scared 
to notice him and so he tied it into a ragged 
corner of his vest. 

The passengers complained about the ghost 
and some minutes later the ticket examiner came 
to restore order. "You can't travel with a ghost," 
he said to Matan and was answered by a glimmer 
of anger from eyes so siniken and reddened that 
even he was taken aback. 

"I'm not sure, you may need another ticket 
for the spook," he said. And Matan, seeing the 
smile of contempt, tinned away his face to hide 
his rage and dismay. "Why don't you answer?" 

"He is my father and he has lost his voice," 
the boy said. 

"Well, he'll have to chuck the ghost out of 
the window or ride on the balcony. I can't have 
the corridor blocked with passengers." 

Matan rose unsteadily and made his way out 
along the corridor and to the balcony, still grip- 
ping his sticks and bundle and his olive bough. 
The other passengers hurried past or pretended 
not to see the thin and haggard man keeping his 
balance precariously as the train jolted and 
swayed on the curves and gradients. 

There he stayed until the train pulled in at 
the station of Colenso alongside the broad 
muddy Tugela River with the great water towers 
and smokestacks of ilic central power station 
rising like a giant out of the bush-dotted and 
almost empty plain. Matan climbed down to the 
piailorm, made his way across to a bench, and, 
sinking down exhausted, watched the train pnl! 
out. He had not eaten for two days and a lever 
ran in his veins. 



The boy raced up and down in a daze of 
happiness. He loved the machines and heavy 
electric engines, the maze of power lines, the 
intricate transformer plant where black men 
in smart uniforms were at work, the hiss and 
whirr of strange things, and, high above all, the 
great plumes of smoke going up in the blue 
sky. He would one day work in the power sta- 
tion, he thought. His lather sat on the bench 
recovering liis strength while the boy played, 
dodging among passengers and porters. He un- 
tied the sixpence to play with and threw it in 
the air. 

Matan watched the boy and thought of con- 
tinuing his journey, this time on foot over the 
ridge and into the umSuluzi valley. He saw the 
coin make a bright arc, land on the platform, 
and roll over the edge. His son looked down at 
the track where his sixpence had fallen. A train 
drawn by a green electric locomotive was coming 
quietly and swiftly into the platform and the 
boy, without seeing it, was on the point of leap- 
ing down to the track. 

From the bench Matan could not reach him 
in time. "Blicka!" he yelled. "lyez' isitimela!" 
("Watch out— the train's coming!") The child 
turned and, seeing the locomotive, flinched back 
as if struck. The passenger train glided through 
the station without halting and after the last 
coach and the van had passed by he looked down 
and there was his coin still lying in the ballast. 
He jumped lightly over to recover it. 

Quickly he climbed up again, clutching the 
sixpenny piece in his fist, and ran to his father. 
With shining eyes, he said: "Father, you spoke!" 

Matan had the branch across his knees and 
with lips half drawn back from his teeth in an 
expression like a snarl he watched it intently. 
He did not hear or see his son. But nothing 
happened to the smallest leaf on 
the branch. He did not quite 
know what he had expected. Per- 
haps, if the long shadow of his 
father had indeed been riding 
on the bough, it would have 
made some sign of its departure, 
withering the leaves or setting 
th,em on fire. Yet nothing hap- 
pened and the terrible suspicion 
swelled again in him that there 
was no bringing home of his 
ancestors, there was no averting 
the evil following him, no way 
of controlling his destiny. What 
must be must be. 

"Come," he said mildly to the 

boy. "Let us go." He walked now with an effort 
and his tall straight back was slightly stooped. 
A fierce energy drove him on and the boy fre- 
quently ran a few paces or jogged at his father's 
side, clinging to the ragged and flapping great- 

They kept for some miles to the dusty district 
road. The sun's heat danced from the hard clay 
and shale and in the bush the sun beetles droned 
and shrilled. The man kept his eyes fixed ahead 
and passing any stranger he merely raised his 
free hand in a silent gesture. "My father cannot 
speak," the boy explained, and they hurried on. 
Down through the thorn scrub they turned on an 
ancient footpath, and they did not slacken pace. 
Sweat dripped from Matan's chin and the boy 
trotting behind gasped for breath, his bare feet 

A few times they stopped at a stream to drink 
a little water and rinse their faces, and they 
crossed the slow-running umSuluzi at a drift. 
At last they came to their home, two thatch bee- 
hive huts set at the foot of a rocky hill, and an 
old woman, who was a relative of Matan's 
mother, stopped grinding corn and fetched him 
a drink in a calabash. She regarded him with in- 
tense alarm and had noticed how he had changed 
for the worse, but she tried to keep her face 
turned aside and did not speak except in greeting. 
He left the boy with her and from the black- 
ened thatch inside his hut drew out a long- 
bladed fighting assagai. He placed the branch 
at the back of the hut with a bowl of milk and 
went out again into the afternoon sun, now 
carrying his assagai as well as his sticks. At the 
drift across the umSuluzi he slopped to polish 
the blade of his spear, taking fine sand and a 
piece of pumice to hone off the spots of rust. He 
washed it down in the clear water and dried the 
glittering blade on his sleeve. It 
was illegal and dangerous to 
carry such a weapon but he now 
cared little for that. 

A quick walk through the 
bush brought him at sunset to 
a wealthy kraal where many 
cattle and goats were being 
penned by small boys for the 
night. The huts were built of 
stone with stout tliatch roofs out 
of which thrust poles and sticks 
surmounted by various skulls 
and horns of animals and blown- 
up gall bladders. One hut alone 
was of the traditional all-thatch 
pattern and was even weathered 



and dilapidated in a kind ot mock humility, and 
here he tound the isangoma expecting him. 

"You have spoken, you opened your mouth!" 
the man accused him without any ceremony. 

"I have spoken— what matter?" 

"Did you remember what 1 said? ' 

"I remembered." Matan turned on him fero- 
ciously and glared almost maddened at the 
crafty and intelligent face obscure in the growing 

"Why have you come here armed?" 

"I came to hear what you will say. I want to 
know if my father has returned. I want to know 
if I will be given peace, I and my son." 

"How can I say? You have broken the com- 
mand of the spirits." 

"I paid you my last cow to do this— and you 
will do it, son of Noqomfela." 

"Have you come to threaten me, one who can 
destroy you with his little finger?" 

"I must have an answer. Come with mc now 
and attend to the burial of my father's shadow. 
The grave is ready. And if you say he has not 
come home thert I swear to you, evildoer, I will 
send your ghost to fetch him." 

He laid his palm along the shining blade of 
the spear to make himself clear to the doctor 
and then stooping under the low door he came 
out. In single file they returned on the path 
through the bush. The isangoma walked ahead, 
a slight old man wearing a monkey-fur cap and 
carrying a thin blackened wand. It was dusk. 

The grave was in a hollow near the river and 
over it rose the pale-dusty ominous trunk of 
a fever tree. Matan had dug it himself before 
leaving. He brought the branch of wild olive and 
some pots of beer and corn and he led a goat on 
a thong for the sacrifice. He quickly cut the 
goat's throat with the sharp edge of his assagai 
blade and 'disemboweled it. While he struck a 
match the witch doctor studied the fat on the 
entrails and slit out the gall bladder. The match 
went out and now the moon shone down on 
them from a clear black sky. By its light Matan 
climbed down into the grave and carefully ])laced 
the pots of food and beer. When he raised him- 
self he saw the other had scratched together 
some twigs and lit a small fire. On it he sprinkled 
powder from a horn and a thick, acrid smoke 
hissed out, flowing like a liquid down the lip 
of the new grave. Matan coughed heavily. 

"Leave your weapon too," the doctor said. 
But he gripped the gleaming, bloodstained spear 
all the tighter and began slowly to dimb oul. He 
was weak and heavy in his limbs, fighting tena- 
ciously to keep his balance. The fever raced in 

his veins and his head was ringing. Now he was 
out and the isangoma stood to face him. 

"Has my father's long shadow returned?" he 

"He has returned." 

"Then you lied to me. Words escaped my 
mouth and still you say he is here. This way or 
that way you are lying." 

"It was too far for him to fly back to the 
umLambongwenya so he continued the journey 
with you. He is here, he is satisfied." 

"This is another lie. I have not heard his 

"You do not hear and see because yoiu' life is 
nearing an end. Son of Makofin, you are dying." 

"That is at least the truth," he said slowly and 
bitterly, leaning on the haft of his assagai. "I feel 
it ... I will not live many days." 

"You have given i.your life for your father, and 
for your son." 

"Then let us die together," Matan cried out, 
raising the spear in a sudden whirl of his thin 
but powerful arm. The witch doctor shrieked as 
he stepped back. 

AT sunrise the boy came to search for his 
father and found him lying calm and serene 
on his back with his head propped on the roots 
of the fever tree and his feet toward the open 
grave. Stuck fast inches deep into the bole of 
the tree was his stabbing assagai. 

"How is it with my father?" he asked with a 
beating heart. 

The man looked up gauntly and seeing his 
son his eyes softened. "It goes well with me. 
Is the other here, the son of Noqomfela?" 


"Look about— is he not lying stabbed?" 

"No, he is nowhere." 

"Look for my spear then." 

"It's here, in the tree." 

He raised his burning eyes and saw the haft 
and blade of his assagai standing out from the 
tree trunk. At that he sighed as if greatly re- 

"When you are old enough," he said with 
difficulty, "get back the place of youi fathers 
and live there in peace. Let them bury me in 
the same grave which I dug for Makofin. Now 
we are home. One day you may have cattle 
again, and men children and girl children. I 
cannot give you anything." 

The boy twisted out of a knot in his vest the 
coin he had picked up. "Look, I have a sixj)cnce. 
J will grow big and have boots to wear and work 
at the power station." 

Harper's Magazine, August 1961 

Our National Talent 
for Offending People 


/ drive carefully down a narroxv street in 
Honduras, eyes squinting against the tropical 
sun. My old sedan, mud-splaslied from fording 
the rivers, rattles over the bumps. A group of 
small children standing in the street watch me 
pass. One finds a stone at his feel and Inirls it 
against the battered car. 

"Vaya gringo!" he shouts. "Yanqui go home." 

The other children take up the cry, running 
gleefully on their bare, dusty feet. 

"Yanqui, go home." 

An American newspaper says that U. S.— Latin 
American relations arc based only on money— if 
we gave more foreign aid we ivould be better 
liked. The writer, ivlio is described as "no stran- 
ger to Latin America," spent just three weeks in 
San Jose, Costa Rica, covering the Organization 
of American States conference, a?id he visited 
Havana "to analyze the Castro phenomenon." 
He is convinced that Uncle Sam "is bound to be 
unpopular" merely because he is "a rich uncle." 

Did the little boy who threw the rock read 
my newspaper? Would more foreign aid ynake 
him throw orchids instead? 

July 4: Independence Day in the United 
States. Here in Honduras, my friend Don Fausto 
insists that I go with him to the party at the 
American consulate. There is a new consuhir 
official and he wants to meet him. 

"I should think the last one was enough for 
you," I rib him. 

Don Fausto is a large landowner and cm- 
ploys many workers. The former official was a 
dedicated unionist. While he was here, the 
counter of the consulate was covered with AFL- 
CIO pamphlets, in Spanish, touting the benefits 
of unionism. Leaflets explained how to organize 
and bargain, even how to stage a strike. Don 
Fausto had been nearly apoplectic over this, but, 
Stateside-educated aiul a baseball fan, he's for- 
giving. (The official was transferred, finally, to 

"The new one's bound to be better," Don 
Fausto laughs. His English carries a Hoosier 
drawl— he took his engineering degree at Rose 
Poly in Terre Haute. 

Reluctantly I go with him, although I find the 
party in questionable taste. Why advertise it, 
in English, in the local Spanish-language paper? 



Why invite "the American community and tran- 
sient Americans?" We stand near the drink 
table, chatting with the Costa Rican consul. One 
of the local Company executives who can't speak 
Spanish joins us and we switch to English. The 
Costa Rican speaks it even better than Don 
Fausto, without a trace of accent. I hope that 
my Spanish is as good, but 1 doubt that it is. 

A man I haven't seen before drifts toward us. 
Flabby and pale, he's obviously new to the 
trojjics. He joins us, shakes hands all around, 
introduces himself as the new official. He 
doesn't listen for our names or ask about oiu" 
connections. Instead, Don Fausto asks him 
where he went to school and he names one of 
the Ivy League colleges. 

"Rose Poly," Don Fausto offers proudly. 

"Oh," the official replies. 

A group of newcomers arrives, talking ex- 
citedly in Spanish about the si/e of the party, 
the [)robable cost of the new, modern biulding, 
and where are the drinks. Making a face, the 
official excuses himself. 

"Got to go talk with the natives in their bar- 
barous language," he says. 

The Costa Rican, a true diplomat, asks if I'd 
like another drink, I mumble an embarrassed 
thank-you-but-no, and Don Fausto and I leave 
the party. 

"Goddamn gringo," Don Fausto mutters. 

September 15: Independence Day in Honduras. 
All around me, the stir of celebration— fire- 
crackers popping, bands playing, parades in the 
street, horns beeping, people shouting. On this 
day 139 years ago, Honduras fought free of 
Spanish rule. Since then, it has moved from the 
grip of one dictator to anotlier—the scene of 135 
rexjohitions, almost one year. Now, tinder a freely 
elected deynocratic regime, the people really cele- 
brate this day. 

In front of me, a pair of American tourists. 
Each holds a camera; each carries, slung from 
his shoulder, a loaded gadget bag. But neither 
shoots a picture. 

"Pretty crummy," one says. 

"Yeah," replies the other. "Mexico puts on a 
helluva lot better show." 

Several bystanders who understand English 
turn to look at them; then, with the ineffable 
raised-eyebroiv Latin shrug, go back to xoatching 
the parade. The tourists shoulder their xvay 
through the crowd, looking petuhnil. 

It is quiet in the nearby Company town. In 
compliance tvith the law, the Company has re- 
leased its thousands of workers for the day. 
Beyond this, and a congratulatory ad in the local 
paper, it does not participate in the festivities. 
The Hondrirans, short on money but long o)i , have squeezed into Microbuses or 
have walked the ten miles to San Pedro to cele- 

brate. Their stilt-legged barracks are quiet, ham- 
mocks .sivinging empty in the afternoon breeze. 
The Americans in "The Zone" are inside their 
houses, their maids gone for the day. 

The contrast between the Zone and the 
workers' barrnroncs springs out at you noiv. On 
the one hand, looodcn multiple-family barracks, 
iinpainfcd and unscreened, rising on stilts over 
a patcJi of sa)id or concrete; in The Zone, one- 
and two-story houses icith large, screened porches, 
set in the middle of spacious landscaped yards 
maintai)ied by natixie gardeners. Housing is as- 
signed by position, trot by nationality. But most 
of tJie "first-class employees" are American. It 
is, after all, an American company. Only its land 
and its labor are Honduran. 

I leave the north coast and drive into the in- 
terior. Ry suppertime I am in Siguatepeque, 
where a boy once threw a stone at my car. This 
is cooler country, weH located halfway between 
Hondiuas' two most imjiortant cities, right on 
the main highway, up nearly 4.000 feet. There 
are many tourists and other transients, many re- 
tired people. Quite a few are Americans. There 
are also a mission school and hospital and several 
small businesses run by Americans. 

The diners in the pension look up and nod as 
I enter, then resume their heated conversation. 

"And, did you hear what those two U. S. 
Senators said last week?" 

"About what?" 

".■\bout that goddamn Trujillo. They said he's 
'the ideal leader' for 'those countries' and that 
he's made more progress without American aid 
than any of us have with it." 

"I thought the U.S. went along with the San 
Jose resolution condemning the cabron." 

"They did, but you can see what they really 
think from what those Senators said. Imagine, 
one is chairman of the Agricidture Committee 
and the other of the Judicial Committee." 

"Carajo! Goddamn gringos!" 

"Didn't the House of Representatives refuse 
to cut Trujillo's sugar quota? They cut Castro's 
but not Trujillo's. That shows you where they 

"Sure. Trujillo owns most of the sugar— and 
he's forever entertaining gringo politicians or 
giving 'em medals." 

In the morni)}g, I awaken again in La Es- 
pertniza. the lovely mountain toxvn xvhere I live. 
High in the southxvestern hills, roe are some three 
hours' drive off the main road. Fexo Americans 
come here; xce hax'e no consulate; the Company 
has no operations here. As I stroll down the 
street f)ast the fyark, a bunch of little hoys pass 
on their xoay to school. 

"Hold, gringo," they call. "Que le vaya bien. 
May all go xi'rll xeith you." 



AL L of these incidents have taken place 
here in Honcknas within the past couple 
of years. I've seen similar occurrences in Mexico, 
Cuba, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Pan- 
ama, and Colombia. I have no reason to believe 
that anything different is going on anywhere in 
Latin America. But I am convinced that until 
something cjuite different starts happening, the 
Ihiited States will continue to fail here, as it is 
assuredly failing now— no matter how many mil- 
lions we pour into this area. 

Despite what the hit-and-run newspaper pun- 
dits write after a one- or two-week flying visit, 
we are in trouble in Latin America and all of 
our money isn't helping our cause here. And 
odd as it may seem to the nation that gave birth 
to Madison Avenue, one strong reason we aren't 
liked in Latin America is simply that we aren't 
very likable. In fact, it almost seems that Ameri- 
cans here are intent upon— and eminently suc- 
cessfid at— losing friends and alienating people. 

Since I live in Honduras and know it better 
than the other Latin American countries, I'll use 
Honduras as my main example. What happens 
here, however, is not very different from wliat 
happens elsewhere south of the border. 

Here we are known primarily through two 
banana companies (Standard Fruit Company and 
the larger LInited Fruit Comjiany), a handful of 
State Department personnel, and the American 
publications that are read here— chiefly, Time 
magazine's Latin American edition, in English. 
Many, many Latin Americans know English— 
;! fact we tend to forget when we talk about them 
in their presence. English is taught in the schools 
here and is spoken, or at least understood, by 
many ordinary citizens, not just by the Stateside- 
educated business and professional men and 
politici-nn. ^Vhen I first came to La Esperanza, 
one of the most remote towns in the country, the 
i;i\ collector greeted me: "Good! Now I've got 
' chance to practice my English." He had never 
!;een to tlic States, didn't plan to go, but wanted 

D. H. Radler fell in love ivith Latin America 
when he went there in 1958 to establish a research 
information project for United Fruit. Noiv a free- 
lance ivriter in Honduras, he explores the country 
and meets the people, often riding on horseback 
remote from the highivays. He has written many 
articles and is a contributing editor of "'Industrial 
Research.'' Formerly on the staff of Purdue Uni- 
versity as a science ivriter, he collaborated on two 
books (''The American Teen-ager" and "Success 
Through Play"). 

to improve his English "because it's an impor- 
tant language." How many Americans feel that 
way about Spanish, spoken by well over two hun- 
dred million people? 

To Hondurans and other Central Americans, 
the banana companies represent American cap- 
italism; the Embassy and Consulate stand for 
American government; the press, notably Time, 
says what the American people think about their 
neighbors to the South. All have failed to present 
our country effectively. It is worth examining 

The Comfyanies 

Initially, the banana companies came here 
under concessions from local governments grant- 
ing them huge acreages in return for their 
investments, especially the construction of much- 
needed railroads. 

Honduras, perennially the leader in efforts 
toward Central American federation, hoped for 
an east-west rail link to encourage union. By 
1924 it had awarded nearly 200,000 acres of rich 
banana land to United Fruit alone, as compen- 
sation for future railroad construction. Today, 
Honduras possesses 900 miles of railroad— but 
they are all within the banana zone and Teguci- 
galpa remains one of the few national capitals 
in the world without rail communication. 

On the other hand, the banana companies 
have turned useless jungles and swamps into 
productive farms. They have built homes, hos- 
pitals, schools, and clubs; have maintained vast 
health and sanitation programs, virtually eradi- 
cating malaria in their own areas; have con- 
sistently paid their men more than any other 
rural workers in the country. In addition, the 
taxes and wages they pay are larger by far than 
those of any other industry in the country- 
United Fruit alone contributes almost one-sixth 
of Honduras' gross national product. 

UF has also endowed and hcljied support the 
Central .American School of Agriculture at Zam- 
orano, near Tegucigalpa; maintains a vast col- 
lection of economic tropical crops at Lancetilla, 
near the port of Tela; has sent out, free, millions 
of seedlings to sjjread new and better fruits, vege- 
tables, and timber trees throughout the American 

WHiy, then, is there such feeling against the 
Company? Part of the answer is sheer size— UF 
is the dominant factor in the national economy. 
Operating throughout Guatemala, Costa Rica, 
Panama, Colombia. Ecuador, and the Dominican 
Rei)ublic, it is known as el pnlpo, "The Octo- 
pus." Another reason lies in its special contracts 




with the government. Hondurans charge that 
these agreements have subjected their national 
resources to foreign control and their local 
politics to foreign interference. 

It is conceivable that different policies could 
have made UF, which has done much for Hon- 
duras, a welcome partner. Instead, the Company 
seems consistently to have pinsued a course cal- 
culated to make it— and American industry in 
general— warmly disliked. 

No attempt has been made to let Hondurans 
purchase stock in the local Companies, thus al- 
lowing them participation in ownership if not 
control; no director or top executive of the 
present Company is a Latin American, few even 
have much tropical experience. Local managers 
are all Americans, as are most department heads 
and other executives. For years, executive 
trainees have been shipped in from the States 
rather than recruited locally. (This year, at last, 
some graduates of the UF-endowed Zamorano 
agricultural school are being trained by the Com- 
pany for senior agricultural positions. But all 
"dollar employees"— those hired in the States- 
are paid on a higher wage scale than those hired 

Instead of integrating its American personnel 
into the local communiiy, United Fruit main- 
tains Company towns. Housing and other facili- 
ties, including, for example, use of Company 
vehicles, are a function of position— which means 
that the American jefes conspicuously have the 
best. As a direct residt of this segregation, many 
Company people, and even more of their wives, 
speak Spanish poorly or not at all, even after 
years of residence here. Their parties and leisure 
activities might well take place back home: the 
Latin hosts feel shut out on their own home 

The Company does nothing to discourage this 
effective apartheid— it maintains no orientation 
program for American employees, doesn't de- 
mand Spanish language ability or teach the lan- 
guage (except in a few essential cases of men 
who will supervise farm workers speaking only 
Spanish), in no way rewards employees who 
adapt to the local environment and make friends 
for the Company. Instead, UF runs an American 
school for all U. S. children as well as some 
Latins— who are chastised for speaking even a 
word of Spanish, "because we're teaching English 

Recently, UF has given much proud publicity 
to a plan for transferring the ownership of its 
land to local farmers if ihcy agree to raise 
Ijanana.'i (jn it. UF will bu) their product, ship 

and market it, thereby "going into partnership" 
with the nationals in the countries where it oper- 
ates. However, labor leaders point out that the 
Company will thus avoid most of its current legal 
obligations to maintain schools and hospitals, 
provide labor benefits such as vacation with pay, 
terminal leave, etc. Government agronomists 
note that most of the land in question is now 
unsuitable for production of the market-favoriic 
Gros Michel banana because of a soil fungus im- 
ported by UF on planting material in years past. 
Other critics wonder why the company is not 
extending its "partnership plan" to its highly 
productive, low-cost producing zone on Panama's 
west coast. 

The irony of such close-fisted policies is that 
they are not paying off. Toward the end of 
1958 the Company's stock sold at $52 and was 
considered an eminently blue chip. In May of 
this year, it was selfing at less than half that 
price. The pessimism of investors is matched by 
the hostility of Central Americans to North 
American industry in general. 

The Diplomats 

If anything, our diplomats do worse. Our 
Embassy in Tegucigalpa occupies a huge, luxuri- 
ous, high-walled modern fortress. In sharp con- 
trast to most of the other embassies of the old 
capital, it reeks of money and power. 

One former Ambassador made a policy of ac- 
companying President Ramon Villeda Morales 
on his frequent trips aroimd the country, ap- 
parently intending to create an image of Ameri- 
can-Honduran solidarity. Instead, sensitive local 
people predictably interpreted this as U. S. 
domination over their government. As one Hon- 
duran put it, "Uncle Sam gives us money with 
no strings attached— then he attaches 'the tick' 
to the President's back to see that we spend it 

Recently, a Tegucigalpa university student 
told me that he and his fellow students are "tired 
of having every government decision checked 
with your Embassy." Whether this actually hap- 
pens or not is unimportant— the significant thing 
is that the students tliink it happens, and resent 
it. Remember that in Latin America, the stu- 
dents are both active and potent politically— 
their weight has often swung revolutions one 
way or another. (In 1959, for example, Colonel 
Armando Velascjuez Cerrato led a rebellion 
against the Honduran government. The police 
defected to him; the army wavered; the revolu- 
tion failed when the students took up arms in 
sujjport of the government.) 



No U. S. group in Honduras addresses itself 
to student opinion. The Communists do— all the 
time. Is it any wonder that the students are in- 
fluenced by them? 

"We have few real Communists in our group," 
a student friend told me, "but annoyance with 
American meddling and patronizing Americar, 
attitudes causes many of us to accept the Com- 
munist vocabulary: Yankee Imperialism, Dollar 
Diplomacy, and the rest. And remember— we are 
the real future leaders here. Anyone with a uni- 
versity education is still so rare that he is auto- 
matically on top of the heap in the professions, 
in business, or in politics." 

Our consulate in San Pedro Sula, second city 
and economic capital of the country, is also big 
and expensive by local standards. Awaiting re- 
tirement, the consul is fairly inactive, but several 
vice-consuls have left their mark on the com- 
munity. There was one, for example who 

(1) replaced without notice the pojjular di- 
rector of the U. S. cultinal center because she 
was a German, not an American, causing vigorous 
student protest; 

(2) demanded that students at the center, 
for course credit, must listen to the Voice of 

(3) established a conversational English course 
based on readings from Time (whose negative 
attitude toward Latin America we will examine 

(4) called a popular local businessman "a dog- 
thief and an ex-Nazi" when a watchdog lent him 
by this man doggishly ran home; 

(5) earned the local name of "The Ugly Ameri- 
can"— and a promotion to a major European 
capital as senior information officer. 

It would appear that a great many of our 
diplomats here are neither selected for nor 
trained in diplomacy— or in the language and 
customs— or in an acceptable attitude toward the 
people whose friendship they are supposed to 
win. The rare effective U. S. spokesman— such 
as a political officer I met in Mexico City who 
had married a Latin, brought his children up to 
be bilingual, and settled into the life of the 
country— is shortly transferred elsewhere on the 
State Department's rigid rotation schedule. 

The Russians, who lack official representation 
here, have been represented by Cuban emissaries 
—tall, handsome, bearded, and uniformed Latins 
who are obviously "brothers" of the Hondurans 
and whose friendship missions take them into 
the cantinas and football stadia of the people 
rather than the loftier confines of diplomatic 
circles. This approach is reflected in the very 

language of the Russians as compared with ours: 
e.g., in an early exchange over Cuba, Khrushchev 
said, "We will help our Cuban brothers . . . '; 
Eisenhower declared, "The U. S. will not per- 
mit . . ." 

The Voice of Time, Inc. 

If American business and government are fail- 
ing to make friends for us in Latin America, 
their impact is no greater than that of Time 
magazine, which, on the record, has made us a 
host of enemies. One high-ranking Honduran 
government official told me that America would 
be much better liked "if Time printed no Latin 
American edition at all." 

It's easy to see why. Here in Honduras, after 
a stormy history of dictatorship, revolution, and 
more dictatorship, the people finally have a 
freely elected, genuinely democratic government. 
President Ramon Villeda Morales, a leading 
physician and ardent humanist, took office in 
December 1957. Consider Time's coverage of the 
events leading up to the election, beginning with 
its issue of September 23, 1957: 

"Three years ago Honduras' Liberal Party Chief 
Dr. Ramon Villeda Morales, 48, nicknamed 'Little 
Bird,' had a badly busted wing. . . . Last week he was 
riding high. . . . 

'Tor the last eight months Villeda has been serving 
as Honduras' Ambassador to Washington. The stay in 
the U. S. apparently had done him good [italics 
mine]. Washington received him warily, largely be- 
cause of his leftist campaign oratory in '54, e.g., 
promising campesinos an eight-hour day at double 
and triple pay." 

U. S. workers have long had an eight-hour day 
—and triple the 1954 Honduran average is still 
only $1.50 a day, which many Hondurans are 
now getting, thanks to Villeda's having fulfilled 
the promise Time called "leftist." The article 
concluded: "But Villeda Morales proved himself 
a much sobered man." The implication that the 
Honduran presidential candidate was a wild- 
eyed left-winger, but saw the light after eight 
months in Washington, is not a pretty compli- 
ment to a probable chief of state. 

Then, on October 7, 1957, Time reported: 

"Villeda had won the [Honduran presidential] elec- 
tion in 1954 on a wild-eyed program promising double 
and triple wages to farmhands. . . . But eight months 
in Washington . . . had a steadying effect. . . . He an- 
nounced that he was categorically opposed to Com- 

Here we go one step further, to the clear im- 
plications that Villeda had been pro-Conimunist 
(there is no record that he ever was); and that 



his stay in Washington had set him straight. 

Time continued: "The Assembly . . . can either 
name Villeda President or schedule elections, 
which he claims to prefer. . . ." Why "claims"? 
This implies that Villeda is no democrat, really 
wants the presidency any way he can get it. But 
in Honduras in 1957, Villeda could have won 
any election— why not prefer it? 

Despite Time, Villeda became president. He 
went to work on health, welfare, education, and 
transportation for his country's nearly two mil- 
lion people. He built schools, health centers, 
roads, and bridges, gave workers a realistic labor 
code. Time reported not a word of this. Then 
Villeda announced plans for a hydroelectric 
plant on the turbulent Rio Lindo. Time de- 
clared, October 20, 1958: 

"The [World] Bank argued that roads are more 
important than a big dose of power for a primitive 
country, gave Honduras a $5,000,000 highway loan, 
hoping to encourage a big road-building program. 
The effect was just the opposite." 

As a matter of fact, in that first year in office, 
Villeda biult or started building more miles of 
road than Honduras had previously had in its 
entire 139-year history. He is now building the 
Rio Lindo hydroelectric plant as well, with 
$16 million loaned by the Export-Import Bank 
and other banks which agree that power is es- 
sential to Honduras' further development. 

On January 1 1 of last year, Time continued its 
curious brand of "reporting" from Honduras. 
Under the heading of "Letdown," its story began 
with a pat on the back for President Morales, 
saying that two years after he took office, "Hon- 
duras is free and politically stable— no small 
merit in a country whose history counts 135 
revolutions." But Time swung immediately into: 
"Nonetheless, Honduras is a troubled land, suf- 
fering, as Tegucigalpa's El Cronista put it last 
week, with 'spiritual helplessness and a chronic 
economic depression'." And, it added, "Com- 
munists are beginning to elbow their way into 
the nation's press." Time failed to note that El 
Cronista, the authority it quoted a few lines 
earlier, is the principal Communist-dominated 
newspaper in the country. It has been frantically 
and unpopularly supporting— and receiving sub- 
stantial financial aid from— Fidel Castro's Cuban 
revolutionary government. Concluding tlie same 
story. Time declared: "The longer he flutters, 
the less Little Bird looks like the stormy petrel 
he seemed before taking office." 

But Villeda, in addition to his ckai record of 
social ac(()mjjlishnicnt, has meanwhile siucess- 
fully handled a half-do/cn armed rebellions from 

the extreme right; replaced an entire recalcitrant 
national police force with a loyal civil guard; 
effectively countered constant Communist agita- 
tion throughout the country— without declaring 
a "state of siege" such as neighboring Guatemala, 
Nicaragua, and El Salvador have found neces- 
sary. Furthermore, he has avoided major strikes 
in the ailing banana industry, the mainstay of 
the nation's economy, and he has attracted sub- 
stantial capital investment from abroad in a 
period when such investment has been on the 
decline throughout most of Latin America be- 
cause of political instability. 

Were Time's needless flippancy aimed only at 
Villeda, one might see it as an isolated prejudice 
but the magazine— which is read throughout 
Latin America as the voice of the U. S.— main- 
tains the same smug, belittling attitude toward 
virtually everything Latin American, except, per- 
haps, its dictators. Items: 

BRAZIL (January 16, 1956): ". . . Foregoing his 
gimpy English, the President-elect talked to Ike in 
Portuguese, translated by . . ." [For that matter, ivhat 
of Ike's non-existent Portuguese?] 

COSTA RICA (June 23, 1958): Ex-President Jose 
Figueres, one of Latin America's most respected 
democrats and a firm friend of the U. S., ivas asked 
to tell our House of Representatives u'hy the U. S. is 
disliked south of the border. He did. Time reported: 
". . . outspoken Pepe so exaggerated and overstated 
his case that great pieces of his statement ended 
up sounding sadly like the Yanqui-haitin^ he de- 
plores. . . ." Don Pepe is and was outspoke?}— that's 
why he was asked to give the talk in the first place- 
but there n'as little in his statement that is exag- 
gerated or overstated, unless any criticism of the 
U. S., even by inxntation, must necessarily be so 

VENEZUELA (July 21, 1958): Time's f^rst reference 
to Presidential Candidate Romulo Betancourt, an- 
other leading liberal ivith pro-U . S. leanings: "Key to 
the political puzzle was beefy Romulo Betancourt, 
50, top man of the leftist Democratic Action. . . . 
Betancourt now takes a carefully statesmanlike line." 

BOLIVIA (March 2, 1959): "Last week a U. S. Em- 
bassy official added up the results [of U. S. aid to 
Bolivia] and made a wry face. 'We don't have a damn 
thing to show for it,' he said. 'We're wasting money. 
The only solution to Bolivia's problems,' he went on 
to wisecrack, 'is to abolish Bolivia. Let her neighbors 
divide up the country and the problems'." 

Time's story not only enraged Bolivians but 
set off anti-American riots in which several peo- 
ple were hurt, significant property damage was 
done, and U. S. prestige was badly deflated. On 
March 16, calling the story "The Fanned Spark," 
Time rejiorted: "This ruefid jest, rej^eated by a 
U. S. official in La Pa/ and (juoted in Time's 
Maich 2 issue, was turned last week into the 



spark for three clays of anti-U. S. violence. . . . 
The U. S. position [was] that there was 'no evi- 
dence' that the statement was ever made. . . ." 

These examples could easily be multiplied. 
Surveying the Latin American edition of Time 
over the past four years, one finds a consistent 
tone of smug superiority, a persistent flow of 
ridicule for virtually everything Latin American. 
Of course, there are occasional favorable stories 
in Time. Its longer "cover stories" on Latin 
America— for example, the one on Betancourt of 
Venezuela in February 1960— sometimes show 
signs of more responsible editing and writing 
than do its week-to-week reports. But Time's 
favors are rarely bestowed on any performance 
south of the border that doesn't neatly mirror 
dime's version of life in the U. S. 

Even then the Time style intrudes. For in- 
stance, in a story commending Brazil, Time 
couldn't resist discussion of the country's 
"Johnny-come-lately industries." In general, 
towns smaller than Rio de Janeiro or Buenos 
Aires are described as "sleepy"; nations less de- 
veloped industrially than Mexico or Colombia 
as "backward" or "primitive"; plans for local 
development as "starry-eyed"; appeals to the 
U. S. as "dollar-hungry"; dealings with govern- 
ments Time does not approve of as "Red-lining." 

So much for our major press representation in 
Latin America. Along with the often greedy, 
thoughtless behavior of American business here 
and the weirdly "Ugly American" performances 
of so many of our government people, Time 
must bear responsibility for jeopardizing our 
relations with Latin America. 

Guilty Gringos 

Meanwhile, the average Americans who come 
here make matters worse. In general, they are 
badly informed before they come and they make 
a bad impression when they arrive. Then, while 
they are here, they send more misinformation 
back home. Talking in New York recently with 
a director of a large, world-wide U. S. corpora- 
tion, I was shocked to hear that his men had re- 
ported that anti-Yankee feeling is dead in Latin 
America, except for Cuba. "We don't have a 
thing to worry about," he smilingly told me. But 
his men, dressed in business suits, arriving by 
plane and traveling by car in the big cities, see 
only the glitter— and talk only with their Latin 
American counterparts. Educated, traveled, and 
wealthy, these Latins know what side their im- 
ported melba toast is buttered on. If they know 
of anti-gringo sentiments, they're altogether too 
smart to talk about it. 

But on the walls of the millions of thatch- 
roofed shacks of the peasants, Fidel's picture 
hangs alongside that of Christ and the Virgin, 
replacing such former local heroes as Francisco 
Morazan, martyr to Central American unity. (In 
San Pedro, Morazan's statue recently sported the 
red-paint legend, "Viva Castro! Yanquis go 
home!") And in the field commissaries of the 
banana companies and in the candlelit cantinas 
of the poor, a word against Castro is still tanta- 
mount to suicide. (I know this because I've been 
there. Unfortunately, most of our pulse-takers 

There are obvious historical, political, and 
economic reasons for anti-gringo feelings, chief 
among them the size, wealth, and good fortune 
of the United States. But the hostility toward us 
could be diminished if the Americans who come 
here were the sort of people Latins could like 
and respect. With few exceptions, they usually 
manage to make enemies instead of friends. 

We do this by acting as if we are better than 
anyone else. We know little of Latin American 
history, geography, politics, or economics, ap- 
parently because we don't think it's worth learn- 
ing; we speak Spanish poorly or not at all be- 
cause "they'll understand English if I holler 
loud enough." We describe ourselves as demo- 
cratic and ask Latin Americans to emulate us— 
yet Americans here usually stick to the big cities 
and ride the best and most private transporta- 
tion. If they enter a Latin home, it is a high-class 
home, comfortably reminiscent of upper-middle- 
class homes in the States. We seem unable to 
tolerate the natural smell of a man who never 
heard of deodorants. 

During and after World War II, the British 
criticized us for brashness, forwardness, loudness. 
But today in Latin America we make enemies by 
seeming to be too reserved, too preciously with- 
drawn. An ex-European, now a Honduran 
citizen, told me: "You Americans have had it too 
good. You're starting to act like the Germans 
before they set out to take over the world. You 
really believe you're better than anyone else. 
But the day of the superman is over— that's why 
nobody likes you." 

But I don't think most Americans down here 
are irrevocably arrogant, even if they appear to 
be. I think they're afraid. They seem to be 
frightened and embarrassed by people Avho use 
warm abrazos in place of cold handshakes, who 
express their emotions frankly instead of ration- 
alizing around every bush. Weaned on canned 
"self-help" and "popularity" formulas, and 
babied along on condensed, homogenized food. 



clothing, and culture, they are repelled and even 
terrified by people who eat food as it comes from 
the ground, wipe their fingers on their rough 
denim pants, and make music and poetry with 
their own mouths and hands instead of by proxy. 

I know a big, strapping American woman who 
has lived peaceably in the tropics for three or 
four years who— in broad daylight— left a friend's 
house by the back door to avoid passing four or 
five Latin workers, employees of the same com- 
pany as her husband. She was afraid even to 
walk past them (although, husky as she is, she 
might well have whipped the whole crowd had 
the need arisen). I know another woman who has 
always df)ne her own cooking "because if that In- 
dian got mad at mc some day, she might poison 
the food." 

I know several American managers, foremen, 
etc., who refuse to discipline their crews or ex- 
press disapproval of poor work "because I don't 
want to wind up with a machete in my back." 
This, despite the countless managers and fore- 
men who have got on with the job for years with- 
out becoming emergency clinic statistics. Anyone 
who has lived here and used his eyes could cite 
dozens of similar cases of imagined fears. 

It sometimes seems to me that fear, not ar- 
rogance, is what makes some American companies 
abroad exclude local people from stock owner- 
ship or executive resjjonsibility. And perhaps it 
is a kind of fear that causes our diplomats to be 
woefully imdiplomatic, and publications such as 
Time to adopt an attitude of smugness about 
everything American (the known) and of flip- 
pancy toward everything Latin (the unknown). 

Discomfort and Democracy 

In the first half of this century, we were 
supremely unafraid— in Latin America, the dic- 
tators owned the people, and, as often as not, we 
owned the dictators. (For example, the old 
Cuyamel Fruit Company, which later merged 
with United Fruit, openly supported the Bonilla 
coup in Honduras, and received notoriously 
preferential treatment in return.) 

Today, Latin America has only three dictators 
—after centuries of oppression, the people have, 
in the last dozen years, effected a series of social 
and political revolutions in this half of the 
hemisphere. In 1948, Costa Rica put down a 
would-be dictator, Calderon Guardia; in 1952, 
Bolivia overthrew its ancient oligarchy; Argen- 
tina rid itself of Juan Pcron in 1955; in 1956, 
Peruvian Dictator Manuel Odria quit; Hon- 
duras installed Villeda Morales in 1957; in 1958, 
Colombia replaced Dictator Rojas Pinilla with 

Alberto Lleras Camargo, one of the world's most 
distinguished and effective democrats; that same 
year, Venezuelan Dictator Perez Jimenez fled, was 
replaced by freely-elected Romulo Betancourt; 
in 1959, Castro swept Batista out of Cuba; hav- 
ing betrayed the revolution, he may soon suffer 
the same fate himself. 

Sadly enough Americans often seem less com- 
fortable in the new rather rough-and-ready 
atmosphere of emerging democracy than they 
were before Latin Americans began gaining con- 
trol of their own destinies. A fruit company 
executive who travels constantly told me that he 
likes the Dominican Republic best of all: "The 
people there don't dare steal anything from an 
American or give him a hard time or they'll end 
up in jail for life. It may be tough on them but 
it's sure good for us!" Our Ambassadors still 
seem to get on famously with such people as 
Nicaraguan Dictatou Luis Somoza, son of the in- 
famous, assassinated "Tacho." 

Of course Americans back home approve in 
principle when brutal dictators are overthrown; 
but those on the spot too often find their neat 
and privileged world shattered— and they are un- 
willing or unable to come to terms with the 
more demanding one that replaces it. 

Certainly it would be naive to argue that all 
the problems of the United States in Latin 
America spring from defective personal relations. 
No matter how sympathetic or concerned Ameri- 
cans in Latin America may be, our relations will 
still founder if obtuse and greedy policies are 
pursued by our government and our corpora- 
tions. But until the Americans now in Latin 
America overcome their provincial fear of the 
new and different, they will seem arrogant— and 
they will be fondly hated. And even the most 
enlightened policies designed in Washington or 
New York will be undermined. 

Hypocritical calculations by Madison Avenue 
public relations experts won't work. Nor will 
the patent absurdity of "going native." Instead 
we must look upon our Latin American neigh- 
bors simply as people like ourselves— less for- 
tunate geographically and historically perhaps, 
and for the moment in need of our financial and 
technical aid. But they are becoming equal part- 
ners in the Western Hemisphere, and they de- 
mand to be treated as such. 

Have we become so affluent and pampered a 
people, so lacking in adventure and warmth, that 
we will be unable to meet this direct human 
challenge? I do not think so, but if we are to 
succeed in Latin America, we must shuck off the 
habits of the past; and we must do it soon. 

Harper's Magazine, August 1961 


A Matter of 

The events here recounted — although perhaps 

not typical — occurred precisely as they 

are described; only the names of the 

Treasury Department agents are fictitious. 

IA S T spring I was summoned to the Treas- 
^ury Department Building on West Hous- 
ton Street in lower Manhattan. Three years 
earlier I had read a Neiu York Times article 


U. S. Permits Cost Deduction 
On Courses Since 1954 

Promotion No Factor 

The Times was wrong. Our fight, to judge from 
my own bizarre experience, has scarcely begun. 

After reading the article, I decided to file 
claims for my educational expenses since 1954. 
A colleague suggested that since I am also a 
literary critic, I ought as well to deduct for that 
corner of my apartment I use when writing. The 
government, I calculated, owed me $517.04 for 
overpayment of taxes. 

For nearly three years the claims were shuffled 
back and forth among the various New York 

offices of the Internal Revenue Service until, at 
last, I was directed to appear before Mr. Santini, 
Assistant Adjuster for Educational Claims. 

"You know, Mr. Rosenberg," he announced as 
I seated myself opposite him, "we've had to dis- 
allow 90 per cent of all educational claims. Es- 
pecially those of teachers. I suppose you took 
the courses because you need a Ph.D. And you 
need a Ph.D. to get tenure?" 


"I'm afraid that's why we can't allow it," he 
said with pained solicitude. "You see, if you 
don't have tenure, we must consider you a 
temporary employee taking courses in order to 
get a job you don't yet have. And expenses in- 
curred in order to obtain a new position are not 

"But I've already got the job. I've had it for 
years. Some of my colleagues have withered and 
died in the same 'temporary' status. What you're 
saying is that if I had the degree, the govern- 
ment would allow me to deduct for courses I 
would have no reason to take; but since I took 
them because I needed them, they are disal- 

"You might put it that way, if you like." 

"Now suppose," I continued, "we forget the 
degree altogether. I have a statement from 
the chairman of my department certifying that 
if I had not taken those courses, I would long 
ago have lost my job." 

"I'm afraid it sounds odd, Mr. Rosenberg, but 
you can't claim that, for in the eyes of this 
Department you are not yet employed." 

After a stunned moment I confessed it was 
rather paradoxical, and then recalled the ex- 
actly analogous case of a colleague. "Perhaps 
you maintain that Marlor wasn't employed 
either— you disallowed his claim. He appealed 
to the Tax Court and lost there, too. But the 
U. S. Court of Appeals reversed the decision and 
upheld him." 

"You're right, the decision went against us. 
But the Treasury Department does not acquiesce 
in the case of Marlor." 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"The Treasury Department refuses to ac- 

"One doesn't choose to acquiesce, or disdain 
from acquiescing, in a court decision. One com- 

"The Treasury Department refuses . . ." 

"Then, Mr. Santini, the Treasury Department 
sets itself above the law. You are tyrannizing 
over the taxpayer, subverting the judicial process, 
inviting anarchy." 



"The Treasury Department . . ." 

"Look," I interrupted, trying to avoid a com- 
plete impasse, "why don't you go over the rest of 
my claim and see if we can still come to a settle- 

He agreed; and to assure^ me of his fairness, 
summoned his colleague Mr. Vine, a soft-spoken, 
soft-shoed agent of about forty. Together they 
scrutinized the only other item of moment: the 
rent deduction which I had claimed as a writer. 

"I see that you have not declared your income 
from writing," Mr. Vine noted in a grave 

"I have none." 

"You mean all your stories are rejected?" 

"No— my essays have been published, but I do 
not get paid." 

"Surely you don't expect the Treasury Depart- 
ment," he asked shaking his head, "to grant a 
deduction when there's no income from which 
to deduct?" 

I slumped in my chair. Mr. Saniini turi.od to 
Mr. Vine; Mr. Vine, standing directly in front 
of mc, said softly, "A weak case ... a iiery weak 
case." I felt that Mr. Vine was passing judgment 
not merely upon my claim but upon my person. 
He returned to his desk across the aisle. My spirit 
was desolate, my hopes drained dry. 

MR . S A N T I N I figured the claims with- 
out my deductions as writer or teacher. 
I owed the government $137.13. I glanced des- 
perately around the office. The other claimants 
had long since departed, and a small cluster of 
agents were chatting away the remaining minutes 
until five o'clock. One agent— portly, balding, 
but youngish— walked over to the desk. Mr. 
Santini introduced us and I felt at once in the 
presence of a superior spirit who looked upon 
the petty goings-on in that vast room as a kind 
of legalistic gymnastic, a game dedicated to the 
agile exercise of statutes and precedents. He had 
been studying tax law at New York University 
for nine years and assured me that my ordeal 
paled before those he had been through or was 
about to face. 

"In fact, Mr. Rosenberg," he said, "I myself, 
Treasury Agent Bronstein, just disallowed my 
own claim as Taxpayer Bronstein. And do you 
know what I'm doing? I'm fighting it in Tax 
Court. Bronstein vs. The Treasury Department 
comes up in two months. That's how fair we 
are. We've got to see it from the other fellow's 
point of view, from your point of view, Mr. 
Rosenberg. And to show you how just we are, 
I'm getting time off from this Department in 

order to fight this Department. Do you know of 
anything like it?" 

I confessed that I didn't, indeed, that my a^ve 
waxed as my hopes waned. Appealing both to 
his sense of justice and to the Talmudic logi- 
calities of his mind, I explained, "Had you al- 
lowed my tuition and disallowed my rent, I 
would have signed; had you allowed my rent and 
not my tuition, I would . . ." 

"Ah!" he interrupted with a palms-up shrug 
in his voice, "had He fed us on manna, and not 
given us the Sabbath, it would suffice us. Had 
He given us the Sabbath, and not brought us 
near Him at Sinai, it would suffice us. Had He 
brought us . . ." 

"Precisely! The Lord granted all to His 
Chosen People, and you allow nothing." 

He seemed touched by the disparity and, in a 
conciliatory gesture, picked up the topmost of 
the periodicals on Mr. Santini's desk. "What 
does 'Jay Ee Gee Pee' mean?" 

"It's an abbreviation for Journal of English 
and Germanic Philology, a scholarly periodical 
of modest circulation." 

"You write it?" 

"One of the articles is mine." 

Helpfully but mistakenly, Mr. Santini pointed 
to "Zur Textgestaltung des West-ostlichen 
Divans: Orthographic imd Interpunktion." Mr. 
Bronstein thumbed incredulously through an- 
other entitled "The Structure of Eyrbyggja 
Saga," and I sat back thinking it didn't much 
matter anyway. Then he began to recite, as if 
in some bizarre foreign tongue, " 'Thus Auden, 
who conceives of Tennyson as a kind of disem- 
bodied ear, mindless and melancholy . . .' " I 
was pleased that he had at last found my article. 

"Why do you write these things?" 

"Because I am a literary critic and this is what 
literary critics write." 

"Is it a business, trade, or profession?" 

"Well, it's certainly not a business. And the 
exchange value of six complimentary copies 
hardly makes it a trade. Call it a profession; in 
my case a nonremunerative one, a charity you 
might sav." 

"No good. If it's a charity, you've got to be 

John D. Rosenberg recently received his doc- 
torate from Columbia and he also holds degrees 
from Cambridge University. He is an English in- 
structor at the City College of New York and lias 
published critical articles in a number of literary 
journals. His boofc on RusJcin — "The Darkening 
Glass" — won the Ansley Award and will appear this 



certified and incorporated. You see, it's all a 
cjuestion of motive. Say a man's out to make a 
profit— even if he doesn't, that's still his motive, 
and we let him deduct expenses incurred while 
trying to make the money he didn't make. That's 
fine. Now have any of these things ever earned 
you anything, or did you ever write them think- 
ing they miglit, even pennies?" 

It dawned on me that perhaj)s Mr. Bronstein 
had taken it upon himself to act as my advocate, 
as he was about to do for himself in Bronstein 
vs. The Treasury Deportment. Still, in deference 
to his own disinterestedness, I refused to lie: 
"No, the profit motive doesn't fit. It is the nature 
of such journals to lack funds, as it is the nature 
of their contributors not to seek them. But sup- 
pose my motive was recognition, status, getting 
ahead in my profession. We have a slogan where 
I work— publish or perish. Why not call it an 
obligatory expense, necessary to my professional 

I believed I had at last scored a point, but Mr. 
Bronstein looked glumly at Mr. Santini and 
spoke for them both: "You don't get tenure till 
you have your Ph.D.?" 

I recognized the old sophistry and tried to 
squelch it at once: "True, but totally irrelevant." 

"True, but terribly relevant, Mr. Rosenberg. 
As a temporary employee, you can't claim that 
you write in order to hold a job you haven't yet 
secured. And if the motive is tenure, then you 
are seeking a new position and that, you know, 
the government doesn't allow." 

".\11 right, then, let's forget the whole busi- 
ness. Refund all my taxes, since the government 
can't collect on the earnings of a job which it 
insists I do not have." 

Mr. Bronstein was pleased by the paradox, 
Mr. Santini perplexed. I answered their silence 
with a riddle: "Gentlemen, I write but am not a 
writer; teach but am not a teacher, study but am 
not a student. What am I?" 

"A taxpayer, even such as I," Mr. Bronstein 
replied. With that I began to pick up the ex- 
hibits which littered Mr. Santini's desk— bursar's 
receipts, transcripts, rent checks, journals. A stack 
of letters from various editors was beyond my 
reach. Mr. Bronstein passed them to me and, to 
my embarrassment, started to read one from 
John Crowe Ransom. It was a lovely letter, full 
of generous praise, but it concluded with an even 
more generous apology for rejecting one of my 
essays. For the first time during the long after- 
noon—now early evening— I felt something like 
outrage. His face alight in incomprehensible 
triumph, his finger pointing to the final para- 

graph, he thrust the letter across the desk. The 
two men were suddenly transfixed. "Do they 
pay?" Mr. Bronstein asked insistently. 

"What's the difference? They never printed 
the piece." 

"The matter of motive, Mr. Rosenberg, the 
matter of motive! Do they pay?" 

"A few dollars a page, perhaps. But this is a 

"A rejection, Santini, he says it's a rejection! 
You hoped to make some money when you wrote 
it? You submitted it knoioing they pay?" 

"My motive was in part remunerative." 

"You have more of the same?" 

"More than I care to acknowledge." 

"Mr. Rosenberg, the riddle is solved. You are 
not an unincorporated charity; you are a profes- 
sional writer." Mr. Santini nodded vigorously. 

TH E riddle only deepened in my own eyes, 
for I could not comprehend why my re- 
jection slips and not my published articles 
proved that I was a professional. I sorted out 
the other paying rejections from the pile of non- 
remunerative acceptances and handed them to 
Mr. Bronstein. "Can we keep them on file?" 

"All except the one from John Crowe Ransom. 
I have a certain fondness for it." Mr. Bronstein, 
too, had become attached to it, for he suddenly 
left the room letter in hand, while Mr. Santini 
began to refigure my claims, pausing only to 
wonder aloud why I had so long concealed the 

"One hundred sixty dollars thirteen cents for 
1956; one hundred fourteen twenty for 1955; 
total of two hundred seventy-four dollars thirty- 
three cents; allow eight weeks for the check to 

While I signed in triplicate, Mr. Bronstein re- 
turned with three Verifax copies of the Ransom 
letter, which Mr. Santini stapled to my claims. 
They scrutinized the completed dossier and Mi. 
Bronstein assured me it would pass the super- 
visor. "But," he added, "if you had brought re- 
jections from real magazines, like Harper's or 
the Saturday Eveiiing Post, nobody in the whole 
Internal Revenue Service could bat an eyelash." 

I thanked him for his advice, Mr. Santini for 
his patience and, as I walked out onto VV^est 
Houston Street, had an inspiration. I would 
write word for word what had transpired, sub- 
mit it yearly to Harper's, and every April ap- 
pend my rejection slip to the relevant portion 
of Form 1040. .And I would be free for as long 
as I cared to write for JEGP, PMLA, ASLHM, 
MLQ, QJS, and ZfRPh. 

Harper's Magazine, August 1961 



One of the few truly distinguished art critics 

of our time considers the thorniest of 

the controversies that harass the world of art 

— the relation of the artist to his audience. 

AR T is an extensive word. In this essay I 
limit it to the branch of art that I know 
l)esi, the visual arts: and I take this term to cover 
everything made in response to the feeling that 
(ertain events or objects of contemplation, seen 
or imagined, are so important that they must be 
recorded; and that certain objects of use are so 
im]:)ortani that they must be enriched. These two 
aspects of visual art I refer to as image and 
ornament. They used to be called "fine art" and 
"apjilied art," and in the nineteenth century 
were severely distinguished from one another. 
Today we tend to minimize this distinction. We 
believe that the form-creating instinct can ex- 
press itself in both ornament and image; all 
ornament, however abstract, suggests some visual 
experience; all images, however factual, reveal 
some sense of design. Both are forms of order. 
And both are sacramental. "What is this sacra- 
ment?" as the catechism says. "The outward and 
visible sign of an inward and sjiiritual grace." 
Both image and ornament are revelations of a 
state of mind and social temper. 

Having accepted this basic unity, however, 
these two branches of visual art show very great 
differences, especially in their relationship to 
society, and 1 shall consider them separately. 
I think it true tcj say that all image art of any 
value has been made by, or on behalf of, a small 
minority: not necessarily a governing class in a 
political sense, but a governing class in an intel- 
lectual and spiritual sense. Since I shall often 
refer to this minority, I must decide what to call 
it. Plato's "governors" is loo narrow a icini, 
RcHisseau's volonU' gcnerair is loo wide and too 
mysterious. For the sake of brevity J have re- 

ferred to it as an elite; although in fact it is not 
elected, and may be drawn from any class of 

Images are not made for fun. In fact it is 
almost true to say that all image art of value il- 
lustrates or confirms a system of belief held by 
an elite, and very often is employed consciously 
as a means of maintaining that system. Obvious 
examples are the theocratic art of Egypt, the 
Parthenon with its Olympian embodiment of 
Greek philosophy, the stained glass of Chartres 
and Bourges illustrating not only Christian 
legend but the whole superstructtire of patristic 
theology, the temples of Angkor and Borc^budur, 
the Basilica of Assisi and its Buddhist equivalent 
Ajanta, the Stan/e of Raphael, and so forth, 
down to David's picture of the Oath of the 
Horatii. The list could be expanded till in the 
end it would include most of the greatest visible 
feats of human imaginatic:)n and all of those 
which are in any way related to society and do 
not depend solely on the genius of an individual 
artist. It seems that an image achieves the con- 
centration, clarity, and rhythmic energy which 
make it memorable only when it illustrates or 
confirms \vhat a minority believes to be an im- 
j)ortant truth. 

The images provided for the majority by the 
elite may be more, or less, popular. Franciscan 
art in the thirteenth centiny and Baroque art in 
the seventeenth century were two attempts to 
create a ne^v repertoire of images which should 
be more ])opiUar than that Avhich preceded it. 
Both consciously exploited emotionalism. But 
the artists who gave the finest expression of those 
styles— let us say Cimabue and Bernini— were 
working for a small group of patrons, and were 
deeply receptive of their ideas. Bernini's Saint 
Theresa became a j)opular image; it revealed to 
the majoiity a hidden need. But it was Bernini's 
o\vn invention and in its origin it owed nothing 
to poj)ulai demands. F\en the images which we 
first belie\e to have a popular origin— for ex- 

ample those charming woodcuts known as images 
d' Epinal—dLxe for the most part naive and imper- 
fect memories of images already invented for the 
elite by such an artist as Philippe de Champagne. 
The only exceptions I can think of are those 
anecdotal strips which simply tell a story, often 
with the help of balloons of text. Such were the 
ilkistrations of late antique manuscripts, the 
painting of popular artists like Pacino di Bona- 
guida, the Bihlia Pauperum and its derivatives, 
and a number of Japanese scrolls, like the comic 
animals attributed to Toba Sojo. These, I be- 
lieve, are the only forms of autochthonous popular 
image art before the nineteenth century, and I 
mention them now because they reveal a funda- 
mental characteristic of all popular art: that it is 
concerned with narration. 

At first sight ornament would seem to be a 
more popular form of expression than image. 
Ornament has the character of a language— nine- 
teenth-century writers used, quite properly, to 
speak of the grammar of ornament— and in so 
far as it is a living language it is accepted almost 
unconsciously by the majority. However there is 
this difference, that whereas language seems to 
have evolved unconsciously from mass needs, a 
system of ornament has seldom been invented by 
"the people." In f;ict I can think of only one 
exception: the pottery of the Mexican Indians, 
which is outstandingly beautiful and does seem 
to be a genuine popular creation. In Europe 
good folk ornament turns out almost always to 
be a cruder rendering of a minority style; and I 
think the same is true of China, India, Persia, 
and the whole Moslem culture. I would even 
extend this to the most vital and expressive of 
all ornament styles— that produced by the so- 
called folk-wandering peoples. I believe that the 
finest Scythian ornaments were by a great artist 
working for a chief, and that most of what has 
been discovered in Scandinavia or Scotland is a 
half-understood imitation of these aristocratic 

In ornament the ulterior motive is less strong 
than in the image. It does not openly recommend 

Sir Kenneth Clark, eminent art historian, was 
formerly Director of the National Gallery in Lon- 
don, Slade Professor of Fine Arts at Oxford, and 
Chairman of the Independent Television Authority 
of Great Britain. His books include ''The Gothic 
Revival," "Moments of Vision," and "The Nude." 
This essay is adapted from his address at the Cooper 
Union Centennial in New York in late 1959 and the 
Lloyd-Roberts lecture given to the Royal College of 


a system. But no one maintains that it exists 
solely to please the eye, and lacks ulterior motive 
altogether. It is an assertion of status— whether 
in a cope or crown or crosier or portail royal or 
precious reliquary. This fact, which has been 
worked out in detail by Marxist historians, is 
taken by them as a condemnation of art; and, as 
everyone knows, Veblen coined for it the expres- 
sion "conspicuous waste." This expression is 
apt, but I do not find it at all damaging. .\11 
art is waste in a material sense; and the idea 
that things should be made more precious-look- 
ing in accordance with the status of the user 
seems to me entirely fitting. I think that a 
bishop should have finer vestments than a dea- 
con and that the portal of a cathedral should 
be more richly ornamented than the door of a 
warehouse. I would go further, and say that 
ornament is inseparable from hierarchy. It is 
not only the result, but the cause of status. The 
carving on the corner capitals of the Doge's 
Palace and the central window of the Palazzo 
Farnese confer a kind of kingship on those points 
of the buildings. In a democratic building, 
where all windows are equal, no ornament is per- 
missible; although I understand that the higher 
executives may have more windows. 


SO I would deduce from history this first 
law (in the Ruskinian sense) of the relation- 
ship of art and society: that visual art, whether 
it takes the form of images or ornament, is made 
by a minority for a minority, and would add this 
rider, that the image-making part is usually con- 
trolled in the interests of a system, and that the 
ornamental part is usually the index of status. 

Created by a minority: yes, but accepted by the 
majority unquestionably, eagerly, and with a 
sense of participation. The degree of physical 
participation in the great popular works of art 
is hard to assess. We know tliat in the building 
of the Gothic cathedrals— Chartres is the most 
familiar example— whole villages moved to be 
nearer the work, and men were prepared to learn 
subsidiary crafts in order to help the professional 
masons. We can assume that the same was rme 
of Borobudur or Ellora, although the economic 
status of the workers may have been (lilleicnl. A 
parallel in modern life would be the buildini!; of 
a great liner in Clydebank, whcic the whole life 
of the town depends on the work. Bui; apart from 
this active participation, one has only to re;ul 
the accounts of how in the great ages of artistic 
creation works of art were brought iiiio existence 



—the long and serious thought which preceded 
the commission, the public anxiety about its 
progress, the joy when it was at last accom- 
plished, and the procession in which it was car- 
ried to its destination, to the sound of bells and 
singing of a Te Deum— one has only to come 
upon such documents, common enough in the 
Middle Ages and Renaissance, and applicable, 
surely, to Olympia and the Acropolis of Athens, 
to recognize that the society of those times needed 
art, believed without question in the value of 
art, and participated imaginatively in its making. 
So this would be my second law: that a healthy 
and vital relationship between art and society 
exists when the majority feel that art is absolutely 
necessary to them, to confirm their beliefs, to in- 
form them about matters of lasting importance, 
and to make the invisible visible. 

Now in saying that this is the healthiest rela- 
tionship between art and society, I must not be 
understood as saying that these are the 07Tly 
circumstances under which good works of art 
can be produced. Even before 1870 great pic- 
tures were painted by individuals who had no 
relationship with society at all and whose work 
was distasteful or incomprehensible to the ma- 
jority. Rembrandt and Turner, in their later 
phases, are obvious examples. In the history of 
art, as in all history, nothing poses a more 
delicate problem of interpretation than the rela- 
tionship between individual genius and the gen- 
eral will. But even if we believe, as I am inclined 
to do, that inspiration is more likely to illuminate 
an individual than a mass and that all the mem- 
orable forms of art were originally invented by 
individuals of genius, we must agree that at cer- 
tain periods these individuals are isolated, at 
others they enlist behind them a whole army of 
assent and participation. 

Nor is this direct relationship of need and 
unquestioning belief certain to produce good art. 
Artistic faculties are somewhat imequally— we 
may think unfairly— distributed among the peo- 
ples of the globe; and although the relationship 
may be sound, not all needs have the same 
validity. However, I am sufficiently a Ruskinian 
to believe that when a society, over a long period, 
produces an art which is lacking in vitality and 
imaginative power, but which nevertheless seems 
to be accepted by the majority, there is some- 
thing wrong with that society. 

This brings me back to the part of my opening 
definition, where I said that art was a sacrament; 
and I must now consider hf)w an inward and 
spiritual grace can be given outward and visible 
form. The answer is, througli symbols. A symbol 

is a sort of analogy in the physical sphere for 
some spiritual or intellectual experience. Usually 
it is the concentration of several related experi- 
ences so complex that they cannot be expressed 
in any rational form, and so intense that a 
physical symbol suggests itself unconsciously. We 
know from the saints of every religion that the 
most poignant spiritual experiences demand ex- 
pression by physical analogies, and, in spite of 
Pascal and Spinoza, we may infer that spiritual 
experiences which remain abstract are not usu- 
ally very intense. Symbols may start as a result 
of private revelations, but their value in art 
depends on the degree to which they can be felt 
and accepted by others. In fact nearly all in- 
tensely felt symbols have some universal quality, 
which makes them comprehensible even when 
their maker believes them to be peculiar to him- 
self. But it is also true that the sacramental 
character of art is far^more easily achieved when 
the principal objects of belief have already been 
given a symbolic form which is generally recog- 
nized and accepted: in other words, when there 
is an established mythology and iconography. 


IN THIS question of art and society the im- 
portance of an accepted iconogiaphy cannot 
be overstated. Without it the network of beliefs 
and customs which holds a society together may 
never take shape as art. If an iconography con- 
tains a number of sufficiently powerful symbols, 
it can positively alter a philosophic system. The 
points of dogma for which no satisfactory image 
can be created tend to be dropped from popular 
religious exposition, and episodes which have 
scarcely occupied the attention of theologians 
tend to grow in importance if they produce a 
compelling image. I would go so far as to say 
that the failure to discover a satisfactory symbol 
for the Holy Ghost has seriously impaired ovir 
concept of the Trinity. 

Let me give an example of iconographic 
triumph and disaster from one painter in one 
place: Titian in Venice. In the Frari his sub- 
lime image of the Assumption of the Virgin is 
so corporeally convincing that it provided a 
point of departure for Baroque painting, and 
this image was to float in the background of 
Catholic imagination down to our own 
day. In the "Salute" is Titian's painting of 
Pentecost, a work over which he took great pains, 
but witiiout success. It was the final blow to a 
subject which had never found an impressive 


iconographical form, and which in spite of its 
theological importance, gradually faded from the 
consciousness of popular Catholicism. Let me 
take another example from Buddhism. It had 
been categorically laid down that the Buddha 
must not be portrayed, and in the earliest scenes 
of his life, such as those on the stupa at Sanchi, 
the central point of each episode is left a blank 
—an empty chair or a deserted boat. This insult 
to the image-making faculty was not to be borne, 
and a representation of the Buddha was finally 
accepted. But where did it come from? From 
the imitation, in the fringes of the Buddhist 
world, of some Praxitelian Apollo. Thus the 
most extreme example of spirituality was em- 
bodied by the most concrete expression of phys- 
ical beauty. Conversely, dogma may triumph 
over the popular love of imagery in a theocratic 
society, and produce an iconography, like that 
of later Bucldhism, with its 10,000 Buddhas, 
which deprives images of all artistic quality. 

Lest it should be thought that this question of 
iconography does not apply to modern life, let 
me add that it is not confined to dogmatic re- 
ligion. For example, the iconography of the 
Romantic Movement from 1790 to 1830 was al- 
most as compulsive as if it had been laid down 
by the Council of Trent. The tiger— in Blnke, 
Stubbs, Gericaidt, Delacroix, Barye, and a dozen 
lesser artists; the cloud— in Wordsworth '-ul 
Byron, Shelley, Turner, and Constable; the ship- 
wreck—in Byron, Turner, Goya, Gericault, Dela- 
croix, and Victor Hugo: these are symbols of 
Romanticism, used and accepted unconsciously 
because they expressed the new worship of na- 
ture and power, and a new sense of destiny. I 
think it would be a mistake to call this state of 
mind a religion. That word should be reserved 
for beliefs which are based on a book of holy 
writ and involve certain formal observances. But 
at least we can say that the belief in nature, 
which expressed itself in the landscape painting 
of the nineteenth century and has remained the 
most productive source of popular art to this day, 
is a non-material belief. It is something which 
cannot be justified by reason alone and seems to 
lift the life of the senses onto a higher plane. 

This suggests another "law" in the relation- 
ship of art and society: that it is valuable only 
when the spiritual life is strong enough to insist 
on some sort of expression through symbols. No 
great social arts can be based on material values 
or physical sensations alone. 

This "law" leads me to consider the problem 
of luxury art. Now, it would be dishonest for me 
to take a puritanical or Veblenist view of luxury 



Water opens without end 
At the prow of a ship 
Rising to descend 
Away from it 

Days become one 
I am who I was 

art. Moreover there is a point— Watteau's "En- 
seigne de Gersaint" is an example— at which the 
sensuous quality of luxury art is so fine that it 
offers a spiritual experience. We are playing 
with words and concepts which, as we breathe 
on them, become alive and flutter from our 
hands. Still, the fact remains that, in the long 
run, luxury art implies the reverse of what I 
have called a healthy relationship between art 
and society and so has a deadening effect. The 
most obvious example is the art of eighteenth- 
century France, where, however, the arrogant 
elaboration demanded by powerful patrons is 
sometimes sweetened, and given lasting value, 
bv a reasonable belief in the douceur de vivre. 
But the predominance of luxury art in the 
eighteenth century is a short and harmless 
episode compared to that long slumber of the 
creative imagination which lasted from the end 
of the second century b.c. to the third century 
A.D. For almost five hundred years not a single 
new form of any value was invented except, 
perhaps, in architecture. Works from the pre- 
ceding centuries were reproduced interminably 
—made smoother and sweeter for private col- 
lectors, bigger and coarser for the public. 

What can we say of the relations of this art 
to the society which produced and accepted it? 
That no one believed in its symbols; that no one 
looked to it for confirmation or enlightenment. 
In short that no one wanted it, except as a con- 
ventional form of display. The Romans did not 
want art and they did not make it; but they col- 
lected it. 

The problem of luxury art is complicated by 
the fact that the periods in which it predominates 
are usually periods when the art of the past is 
collected and esteemed. This was obviously the 
case in Hellenized Rome and in eighteenth-cen- 
tury England: conversely the idea of collecting 
and displaying works of an earlier period was 



hardly known in those cultures where the need 
for art was strong and widely diffused. One must 
distinguish, of course, between the fruitful use 
by artists of earlier works, which took place in 
thirteenth-century Rheims no less than in 
fifteenth-century Florence, and the competitive 
accumulation of collectors. The feeling for the 
art of the past in Donatello or Ghiberti is en- 
tirely different from that of the eighteenth-cen- 
tury connoisseurs— at once more passionate and 
more practical. "How can I use these admirable 
inventions to give my own message?" "How can 
T surpass them in truth or expressive power?" 
These are the questions aroused by the work of 
the past in the great ages of art. In periods of 
luxury art, on the other hand, works of the past 
are collected at worst for reasons of prestige and 
at best in order to establish a standard of taste. 
The concept of good taste is the virtuous profes- 
sion of luxury art. Rut one cannot imagine it 
existing in (he twelfth century, or even in the 
Renaissance; and without going into the com- 
plex question of what the words can mean, I am 
inclined to doidot if a completely healthy rela- 
tionship between art and society is possible while 
the concept of good taste exists. 


SUCH, then, are the deductions that I would 
make from studying the history of art; and 
I have ventured, in the nineteenth-century man- 
ner, to call them laws. It is arguable that this 
word should never be applied to the historical 
process: we see too little. Rut at least we can say 
that these are strong probabilities which should 
be our first criteria when we come to examine 
the relations of art to society at the present day. 
In doing so I may be allowed one assumption: 
that fundamentally human beings have not 
changed. The picture of human nature which 
we derive from the Rook of Kings or the Fourth 
Dynasty Egyptian portrait heads in Cairo and 
Roston is much the same as what we know today, 
and I think we may safely assume that it will 
take more than television and the internal com- 
bustion engine to change us. In fact, I would 
suppose that we have more in common with the 
Middle Ages than our fathers had, because to us 
universal destruction is an actual possibility, 
whereas to our fathers it was only a pious fiction. 
However, if human nature has not changed, 
human society has; and changed as the result of 
a basic shift of mental outlook. 

This change can be described in one word: 
materialism. The word has taken on a pejora- 

tive sense, but materialism has been the source 
of achievements which have added immeasurably 
to the well-being and happiness of mankind. 
Whether as the dialectical materialism of the 
East or the liberal materialism of the West, it 
has given to masses of men a new standard of 
living, a new sense of status, and a new hope. 
These benefits have been achieved because 
materialism has been the philosophical basis of 
two outstanding human activities, one in the 
moral and one in the intellectual sphere: hu- 
manitarianism and science. These' are the in- 
tegrating forces of our culture, and they are as 
powerful, and as all-pervasive, as was Christianity 
in the Middle Ages. 

Now, how does this vmderlying philosophy of 
materialism relate to art? One cannot help being 
aware of one very serious obstacle. Materialism 
and all its children are dedicated to measure- 
ment. Rentham's pl^ilosophy was based on the 
greatest good for the greatest number. Democracy 
depends on counting the number of votes. All 
social studies are based on statistics. Science, al- 
though it claims to have outgrown that phase, 
reached its present position by an unprece- 
dented accuracy of measurement. 

In its century of triumph, measurement has 
even become an article of faith. The potential 
of faith in the human mind is probably fairly 
constant, but it attaches itself to different ideas 
or manifestations at different periods. The bones 
of the Saints, the Rights of Man, psychoanalysis 
—all these have been the means of precipitating 
a quantity of faith which is always in solution. 
People probably believe as much nonsense today 
as they did in the Middle Ages; but we demand 
of our precipitant that it look as if it could be 
proved— that it appear to be measurable. Peo- 
ple might have believed in art during the last 
fifty years if its effects could have been stated in 
an immense table of figures or a very complicated 
graph; of course they would not have checked 
the figures or understood the graph, but the ex- 
istence of these symbols of measurement would 
have sustained their faith. 

Rut we cannot measure the amount of satis- 
faction which we derive from a song. We cannot 
even measure the relative greatness of artists, 
and attempts to do so by giving marks, popular 
in the eighteenth century, produced ridiculous 
results; Giulio Romano always came out top of 
the poll, which as we all know, by some un- 
analyzable form of knowledge, is incorrect. The 
more honest philosophers of materialism have 
recognized that art cannot be measured in ma- 
terial terms. Rentham invented the unforgettable 



comparison between pushpin and poetry, coming 
down on the side of pushpin because more peo- 
ple wanted it. Poetry he defined as "misrepre- 
sentation," whicli is the liberal counterpart to 
Veblen's "conspicuous waste." The philosophers 
of dialectical materialism have accepted art only 
in so far as its magical properties have conceded 
the right to enjoy and even to produce art among 
the rights of minorities. Art is the opiate of the 

How arc the philosophic assumptions of ma- 
terialism reflected in the actual status of art in 
modern society? It is incontrovertible that fine 
art, as the word is usually understood, is the 
preserve of a very small minority. We must not 
be bamboozled by the claim that more people 
listen to "good" music or visit picture galleries; 
nor even by the fact that a few of us have tricked 
the unsuspecting viewer into looking at old pic- 
tures on television. Similar claims could be made 
for the nineteenth century— for example, during 
the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition in 
1857, special trains ran from all over England, 
and whole factories closed down in order that 
the workers could enjoy the experience of art; 
and yet the next fifty years saw the consolidation 
of a Philistinism unequaled since the Roman 

Anyone who has been concerned with those 
"arts" which really depend on the support of a 
majority— the cinema, television, or wholesale 
furnishing— knows that the minority which is 
interested in art is so small as to be irrelevant in 
any serious calculation. In England, the majority 
is not merely apathetic, but hostile to art. A 
recent example was the film of The Horse's 
Month, which the exhibitors would not show (in 
spite of brilliant acting and hilarious comedy) 
simply because the leading character was an 
artist. If only, they said, he had been a school- 
master or a doctor! This is perfectly understand- 
able. The existence of these freakish members 
of society whose usefulness cannot be demon- 
strated, but who often seem to be enjoying them- 
selves and sometimes even to be making money, 
is an affront to the ordinary hard-working man. 
It is fair to say that in spite of this feeling, artists 
are treated tolerantly in democratic countries. 

We should be grateful for this tolerance, but 
does it not fall far short of my second condition 
for a healthy relationship between art and so- 
ciety: that the majority feel art to be absolutely 
necessary to them; that they are not merely con- 
sumers, but participants; and that they receive 
works of art as the expression of their own deep- 
est feelings? 

Before answering this question, I must look back 
at my original definition of the word "art." Do 
the majority still feel that material things must 
be made more precious? Do they still feel tliat 
certain images are so important that they must 
be preserved? In a sense the answer is "yes." The 
majority still want ornament on their clothes, 
their furnishing fabrics, their wallpapers, and 
many objects of daily use. More than this, they 
still mind very much how things look, inde- 
pendent of their utility. Whether it be dress or 
automobile design, they are still in the grip of 
style. They and the designers are swept along by a 
blind destiny, a mysterious force which they can- 
not analyze, but of which they are acutely con- 
scious when they look back at the fashions of 
twenty years ago. 


BU T no one pretends that, in the last fifty 
years, the use of ornament has revealed a 
satisfactory relationship between art and society. 
Ruskin and William Morris supposed that this 
was due to the intervention of the machine. But 
this theory turns out to be applicable only to 
the Gothic style. In almost every other style the 
machine is an extended tool that can be used with 
confidence; and for that matter a great deal of the 
ornament of the past, from the Viking goldsmith 
work of Sutton Hoo to the inlaid panels of the 
Taj Mahal, is entirely devoid of manual sensi- 
bility and might just as well have been made by 
a machine. 

From a technical point of view, the premises 
on which ornamental art is produced have not 
greatly changed. When we examine it in the 
light of my other laws, however, the change is 
considerable. With a single exception, the orna- 
ment favored by the majority is no longer made 
for an elite; and it no longer has any underlying 
sense of symbolic meaning. In one branch of art 
—in architecture— it has almost ceased to exist: 
and although we have now grown used to build- 
ings without ornament, the historian must 
record that this is a unique event in the history 
of art, and one which would certainly have 
shocked those famous architects of the past who 
gave so much thought to the character of their 
ornament, and counted upon it at all points of 
focus and transition. The great refusal of modern 
architecture was perhaps a necessary purge and 
had certain health-giving consequences. But 
often it is simply an impoverishment, an excuse 
for meanness and a triumph for the spirit that de- 
nies. That it is not the expression of a popular 



will we learn when we look down the blank face 
of a modern building into the shop windows at its 
base; and this leads me to the exception I men- 
tioned just now: it is women's dress. There, it 
seems to me, the compidsion is so strong that a 
healthy relationship between art and society is 
never lost. I am not suggesting that all fashions 
are equally good— of course there are moments 
of failing invention and false direction. But they 
always right themselves because there is an in- 
destructible volonte ge7ierale—a.n interaction be- 
tween the elite and the masses, a sense of status 
and an unconscious feeling for symbolism. 

If the position of ornament in modern society 
is uneasy and incomplete, the position of image 
art has suffered a far more drastic change, owing 
to the invention of the camera. The public 
hunger for memorable and credible images has 
in no way declined, but it is satisfied every day 
by illustrated papers; and the love of landscape 
which, as I said, was one of the chief spiritual 
conquests of the nineteenth century, is fed by 
colored postcards. I am not denying that there 
is an element of art in press photography; I will 
also admit that I derive a pleasure from colored 
postcards which must, I suppose, be called 
aesthetic. I prefer a good colored postcard to a 
bad landscape painting. But in both these pro- 
jections of the image, much of what we believe 
gives art its value is necessarily omitted. There 
is selection, but no order, and no extension of the 
imaginative faculty. 

To realize how destructive has been the effect 
of the camera on image art, consider the art of 
portraiture. The desire to hand down one's like- 
ness to posterity produced one of the chief social 
arts of the postmedieval world. It did so because 
the portrait painters of the time had behind them 
an immense weight of volonte generale. The sit- 
ters participated because they knew that their 
desire to perpetuate their likenesses could not be 
achieved in any other way. Now, no one supposes 
that a photograph, however skillful, is compar- 
able with a Goya as a work of art, or even as a 
likeness. But the fact that photography exists, 
and can tell us far more accurately than a 
mediocre painting what people looked like, has 
knocked away the foundation upon which por- 
traiture rested. There is no longer a feeling of 
participation in the sitters. The portrait painter 
no longer feels that he is really needed, any more 
than ornament is needed on a building; and so 
he, too, has become an anachronism. 

The portrait is typical of the decline of con- 
fidence in art which is felt unconsciously by the 
mass of people as a result of the camera. There 

is however one form of popidar imagery which 
is not entirely dependent on photography, and 
that is the poster. Here, a number of my condi- 
tions for a healthy relationship between art and 
society obtain. Posters are made on behalf of a 
minority and aim at supporting some belief; they 
appeal to a majority, and millions of people de- 
rive from them what they take to be information 
about matters which they believe to be impor- 
tant. Moreover, posters achieve their effects 
through the use of symbols, and it is a curious 
fact that the ordinary man will accept in posters 
a symbolic treatment, a freedom from realism, 
which he would not accept in a picture framed 
in a gallery, simply because a poster does not 
exist for its own sake, but is concerned with 
something he needs. All this is true, and yet we 
know that in spite of many effective and mem- 
orable posters, advertising has not produced an 
art comparable to J;he windows of Chartres 
Cathedral; and never can. The reason is, of 
course, that it lacks what I have called the sac- 
ramental element in art. I said earlier that the 
nearest equivalent in modern life to the building 
of a medieval cathedral was the construction of 
a giant liner. But the liner is built for the con- 
venience of passengers and the benefit of share- 
holders. The cathedral was built to the glory of 
God. One might add that advertising art is con- 
cerned with lies, of a relatively harmless and ac- 
ceptable kind; but one must remember that the 
great art of the past was also concerned with lies, 
often of a much more dangerous kind. The 
difference is not one of truth, but of the different 
realms to which these two forms of art belong— 
the realm of matter and the realm of spirit. 


IN E E D not press any further the point that 
the philosophy of materialism is hostile to 
art. But what about its two noble kinsmen, hu- 
manitarianism and science? Although they are 
to a great extent committed to measurement, 
they are not wholly materialistic. They recog- 
nize values which we may call moral, intellec- 
tual, and even aesthetic. They are the integrating 
beliefs of the last 150 years. How are they con- 
nected with art? 

The more enlightened supporters of humani- 
tarianism have often bewailed the fact that art 
seems to have flourished in societies which were 
quite the reverse of humane. Yet we feel in- 
stinctively that this is natural; that kindness, 
mildness, decency, are not as likely to produce 
art as violence, passion, and ruthlessness. One of 



the most ancient and persistent images in art is 
the lion devouring a horse or deer; and it must 
puzzle the humanitarian mind that this blood- 
thirsty episode came to be accepted as a suitable 
decoration for pagan sarcophagi; then entered 
Christian iconography as a symbol of the spirit- 
ual life; and finally became the dominating 
motif of the only great religious painter of the 
nineteenth century, Delacroix. The answer is 
given in Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell, 
and I will not be so foolish as to elaborate it. 
But I may quote the words of a great living 
painter: "It isn't enough to have the eyes of a 
gazelle; you also need the claws of a cat in order 
to capture your bird alive and play with it be- 
fore you eat it and so join its life to yours." To 
put it less picturesquely, art depends on a con- 
dition of spiritual energy, which must devour 
and transform all that is passive and phlegmatic 
in life, and no amount of good will can take 
the place of this creative hunger. 

I am not saying that violence and brutality 
beget art, or that there is not still far too much 
violence and brutality left in the world. The 
bright new towns in our welfare state are an 
achievement of which humanity may be proud. 
But do not let us suppose that this peaceful, 
humdrum, hell-free, de-Christianized life has 
been achieved without loss. And apart from the 
unlikeliness of art being forged at such a low 
temperature, the doctrine of equality and the 
drift toward equality, on which such a society 
depends, run counter to one of my first laws. 
We have many reliable indications of what Mr. 
and Mrs. Honest Everyman really want. We 
don't need surveys and questionnaires— only a 
glance at suburban or provincial furniture stores 
and television advertisements. There we see the 
art of a prosperous democracy— the art that is 
easily unwrapped— the art of least resistance. 
This would not matter much, were it not that 
Gresham's law— that bad money drives out good 
—is equally true of spiritual currency; and we 
are all surrounded by far more bad art than 
we are aware of. I observed during the war, 
when the amount of conspicuous waste was cut 
down in the interest of economy, and objects of 
daily use, like teacups, were made without even 
a curve, let alone a pattern, that the appetite for 
real works of art was much keener and more 
discriminating than it was before. 

With science the position is rather different. 
It is not so much a soil in which art will not 
grow as it is a rival crop. The development of 
physical science in the last hundred years has 
been one of the most colossal efforts the human 

intellect has ever made. Now, I think it is argu- 
able that human beings can produce, in a given 
epoch, only a certain amount of creative power, 
and that this is directed to different ends at 
different times; and I believe that the dazzling 
achievements of science during the last seventy 
years have deflected many of those skills and 
endowments which go to the making of a work 
of art. To begin with, there is the sheer energy. 
In every molding of a Florentine palace we are 
conscious of an immense intellectual energy, and 
it is the absence of this energy in the nineteenth- 
century copies of Renaissance buildings which 
makes them seem so dead. To find a form with 
the same vitality as the window moldings of the 
Palazzo Strozzi, I must wait till I get back into 
an airplane, and look at the relation of the en- 
gine to the wing. That form is alive, not (as 
used to be said) because it is functional— many 
functional shapes are entirely uninteresting— but 
because it is animated by the breath of modern 


TH E deflections from art to science are the 
more serious because these are not, as used 
to be supposed, two contrary activities, but 
draw on many of the same capacities of the hu- 
man mind. In the last resort each depends on 
the imagination. Artist and scientist alike are 
trying to give concrete form to dimly appre- 
hended ideas. Both, in the words of Aristotle's 
famous definition of poetry, are hoping "to see 
similars in dissimilars." "All science," says Dr. 
Bronowski, "is the search for unity in hidden 
likenesses, and the starting point is an image, 
because then the unity is before our mind's eye." 
He gives the example of how Copernicus' notion 
of the solar system was inspired by the old as- 
trological image of man with the signs of the 
Zodiac distributed about his body, and notices 
how Copernicus uses warm-blooded expressions 
to describe the chilly operations of outer space. 
"The earth conceives from the sun" or "The 
sun rules a family of stars." Our scientists are 
no longer as anthropomorphic as that; but they 
still depend on humanly comprehensible images, 
and the valid symbols of our time, invented to 
embody some scientific truth, have taken root 
in the popular imagination. Do those red and 
blue balls connected by rods really resemble a 
type of atomic structure? I am too ignorant to 
say, but I accept the symbol just as an early 
Christian accepted the Fish or the Lamb, and 
I find it echoed or even (it would seem) antici- 



pa ted in the work of modern artists like Kandin- 
sky and Miro. 

Finally there is the question of popular in- 
terest and approval. The position of science in 
the modern world illustrates clearly what I 
meant by a vital relationship with society. Sci- 
ence is front-page news; every child has a scien- 
tific toy; small boys dream of space ships; big 
boys know how to make a radio set. What does 
a compulsory visit to an art museum mean com- 
pared to this? .\n opportunity to fool about and 
hide behind the showcases? .^nd, at the other end 
of the scale, the research scientist has universities 
competing for his favors with millions of 
dollars' worth of plant and equipment, while 
principalities and powers wait breathless for 
his conclusions. So he goes to work, as Titian 
once did. confident that he will succeed, be- 
cause he knows that everybody needs him. 


SUCH are the conclusions which force them- 
selves upon me when I examine, in the light 
of history, the present relations of art and so- 
ciety. Those who care for art and feel a sense 
of loyalty to their own times may feel it their 
duty to refute these conclusions, but I think they 
will find it difficult to do so without straining 
the evidence. Does this mean that a broadly 
based social art is unlikely to appear for a long 
time? I am inclined to think so. This is not as 
catastrophic as it sounds. At least 90 per cent 
of our fellow countrymen get on very well with- 
out art, and I don't quite know why we shoidd 
bother about them or try to persuade them to 
take an interest. No one tries to persuade me 
to take an interest in racing. .\nd yet some in- 
stinct I can neither define nor defend makes 
me believe that people without art are incom- 
plete and that posterity will have a poor opin- 
ion of them; and so I peer anxiously into the dark 
scene I have described. This is what I find. 

The fact that art is not only tolerated, but 
actually supported by government and munici- 
pal funds, although it is hardly worth a single 
vote and practically no politician has the faint- 
est belief or interest in it, shows that it has re- 
tained some of its magic power. The unbelieving 
majority still recognize that the believing mi- 
nority, in picture galleries and concert halls, 
achieve a state of mind of peculiar value. There 
are very few jK'Oj)le who have never had an 
aesthetic experience, either from the sound of a 
band or the sight of a sunset or the action of a 
horse. The words "beauty" and "beautiful" of- 

ten pass the lips of those who have never looked 
at a work of art— oftener, perhaps, than they pass 
the lips of museum curators— and some meaning 
must be attached to them. 

I believe that the majority of people really 
long to experience that moment of pure, disin- 
terested, nonmaterial satisfaction which causes 
them to ejaculate the word "beautiful"; and 
since this experience can be obtained more re- 
liably through Avorks of art than through any 
other means, I believe that those of us who try 
to make works of art more accessible are not 
wasting our time. But how little we kno^v of 
what we are doing. I am not even sure that 
museum art and its modern derivatives, however 
extended and skillfully contrived, will ever bring 
about a healthy relationship between art and 
society. It is too deeply rooted in cultural values 
which only a small minority can acquire. 

Here we reach Jthe crux of the problem: the 
nature of the elite. It was my first conclusion 
that art cannot exist without one, my second 
that the elite must inspire confidence in the ma- 
jority. During the last hundred years values in 
art have been established by a minority so small 
and so cut off from the sources of life, that it 
cannot be called an elite in my sense of the word. 
Let us call it a priesthood, and add that in pre- 
serving its mysteries from the profanation of all- 
conquering materialism, it has made them rather 
too mysterious. There is something admirable in 
all forms of bigotry, but I do not believe that 
we can return to a healthy relationship between 
art and society over so narrow a bridge. On the 
contrary, I believe that our hope lies in an ex- 
panding elite, an elite drawn from every class, 
and with varying degrees of education, but 
united in a belief that nonmaterial values can 
be discovered in visible things. 

Is it fatuous to interpret the large sale of books 
on art and the relative success of certain tele- 
vision programs as a sign that such an elite is 
forming? But even if these are genuine snow- 
drops, and not paper flowers stuck in the woods 
by hopeful highbrows, many obstacles will re- 
main. There is a lack of an iconography. There is 
the glut of false art which blunts our appetites. 
There is even the danger that true art may be 
degraded through the media of mass communica- 
tions. But I believe that all these obstacles can 
be overcome if only the need for art, which lies 
dormant and unperceived in the spirit of every 
man, yet is manifested by him unconsciously 
every day, can be united with the xoill to art 
whidi must remain the endowment, and the re- 
sponsibility, of the happy few. 

Harper's Magazine, August 1961 



The Good Old Summertime 

what extent is the President 
ned by circumstance? . . . And 
t can the American people do to 
in the freedom of choice — and the 
lents of relaxation — that can make 
present lives worth living? 

ISHINGTON-There is no 
e "good old Summertime." Per- 
> there never will be again for us 
jricans of the twentieth century— 
pt, just possibly, for those who 
now very young, 
he old-time Summer, even in 
pds of overhanging national crisis 
listress, had in it some uncon- 
able occasional quality of re- 
tion and of rest. The phrase "in 
^ood old Summertime" had real 
ning, for example, in August of 
' when the revolution known as 
Vew Deal was taking identifiable 
■e in this country. Much that 
urgent was going on, to be sure, 
there was cruel economic suffer- 
All the same, a certain lazy 
rfulness and fecklessness kept 
king through, if only now and 
To come forward a decade, 
the August of 1943, when the 
ish Isles were the focal point of 
hopes and fears of all the West, 
be seen in retrospect as still a 
when tension sometimes took a 
holiday and it was possible 
;times to walk casually in Hyde 
in London in the sun. 

Here was a time when in a house 
in London, an Allied military organ- 
ism called Cossack was making plans 
for history's greatest and bloodiest 
cross-channel invasion. These, God 
knows, were no calm days. But they 
had a quality which the Western 
World knows no more. This was the 
quality of rational hope and con- 
fidence that while the present was 
frightful, it would pass. The night- 
mare would at length be lifted and 
the lights would go on again, all 
over the world. 

But now our Summertime, while 
it offers no such violence and suffer- 
ing, also offers no such hope. For the 
Cold War is in its way a more ac- 
cursed thing than was the Hot War. 
From this latter a soldier could take, 
a civilian in most lands of the earth 
could take, somehow and sometime, 
a leave and respite, however slight. 

As a war correspondent accredited 
to both American and British forces, 
I was able to see something, now and 
again, of the leaders of both coun- 
tries. And in my recollection, I never 
saw them so totally, so unsleepingly 
driven by the problems of the world 
as are our present leaders. 

Lately I have had opportunities to 
see these leaders simultaneously as 
functioning officials and also simply 
as men whom I have long known 
and for whom I have personal 
affection and a reasonably sym- 
pathetic apperception of what they 
intend to do officially, and how 
they feel as human beings. 

If I am any judge at all. President 
Kennedy and Vice President John- 
son are driven more compulsively 
and more pitilessly than were those 
predecessors who held our destinies 
in their hands two decades ago. 

True, Mr. Kennedy does not now 
have to exercise active personal 
responsibility for directing great 
armies and fleets of sea and air in 
mortal military operations about the 
globe. But now he has many nights, 
and days, which put an actually 
heavier, if much more complex and 
subtle, pressure upon his head 
covered by that familiar mop of 
heavy hair. To direct a Hot War 
puts cruel demands indeed, upon 
the commander. But for him there 
is always the inner consciousness 
that at one point or another action 
will come and so, with a kind of 
purgative force, end the intense, 
febrile inner dialogue: What am I to 
do? For Kennedy, and for all the 
others engaged upon the Cold War, 
there is no way, ever, to relieve the 

I will long remember seeing Mr. 
Kennedy at Glen Ora, his country 
place in Virginia, on the Sunday 
after the anti-Castro invasion of 
Cuba had come to its inefl^ectual 
end on the dreary beaches of an 
island now lost to the West. Now, 
too, the island has become a distant 
small appendage to the Soviet bloc, 
a shrill Communist megaphone 
hanging on a jerry-built pole a long 
way from the main prison camp. 

The President had gone to Glen 
Ora not to get away from it all, but 
only for a weekend change of scene. 
Probably he had gone as much be- 
cause this was the expected thing to 
do as from any desire to transfer the 
burdens which lay on his mind from 
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Wash- 
ington to Middleburg, Virginia. 

The President wore the "loafing" 
uniform of our time, the symbols 
which he puts on, as does many an- 
other, in unconsciously wistful de- 
termination to convince himself th;u 
there are, in our time, still days o( 
rest. That is, he wore a sweat shin 
and chino pants and, as I remember, 
a pair of GI walking shoes. He was 
all dressed up for leisure and relaxa- 
tion; but there was no place to go to 
attain these precious boons. He had 
only brought, intact, to Glen Ora 
the pressures that pervade the White 


House night and day; pressures, 
moreover, which are new to the 
human condition. 

For these pressures cannot be met 
with any real capacity of choice, any 
genuine freedom to select objectively 
between even reasonably clear alter- 
natives. The imperatives of the last 
Hot War were restrictive and diffi- 
cult enough. But the imperatives of 
the Cold War (and these imperatives 
harden more and more, the longer 
the Cold War persists) really leave 
nothing open at all. They require 
this President— as they would have 
required Nixon had he won the elec- 
tion and as they required Eisen- 
hower in his time— to make every 
kind of policy, foreign or domestic, 
without true freedom of choice. 

Talking that clay at Glen Ora in a 
laconic, colloquial way as character- 
istic of his private conversation as a 
rather literary style is characteristic 
of his public addresses, Mr. Kennedy 
himself, as it seemed to me, strongly 
illustrated this point. 

The lost Cuban invasion was, of 
course, his theme. (And this man, 
so often presented as "cool" and 
"contained," had unshed tears in his 
eyes when he spoke of those Cuban 
patriots who had died or been taken 
prisoner by Castro.) But his concern 
was larger than his anxious recollec- 
tion of the mistakes that had been 
made in this ill-fated enterprise. It 
was larger, too, than his bitter recog- 
nition that Castroism was now far 
stronger than before. His ultimate 
concern, it seemed as I listened to 
him, lay in his sudden, jarring, and 
half-paralyzing awareness that the 
Presidency of the United States itself 
was fettered by circumstances it 
never ordered in a world it never 

He was not merely looking back 
in sorrow (even in anguish) at what 
might have been. He was not simply 
shaken by massive errors in calcula- 
tion. What bothered him most was 
that he, the President, had no real 
choice— in the light of the informa- 
tion available to him at the time. 

He could not in good conscience 
halt the rebel movement. They were 
keen, well trained, and ready. To 
have strangled their plan at this 
point would have meant the destruc- 
tion and dispersal of a magnificent, 
if small, fighting force with fighting 


He could not postpone the land- 
ings—or anyhow not for long. Cuban 
pilots were then training behind the 
Iron Curtain, Soviet planes and 
other heavy armaments were stream- 
ing into the island, and before long 
Castro might well be strong enough 
to beat off anything short of a full- 
scale invasion by American forces. 

Moreover, the rebels were the only 
fighting force in existence anywhere 
against Castroism, which Mr. Ken- 
nedy felt (and rightly) to be a clear 
and present danger to peace and 
order in this hemisphere, and in the 
world beyond. And the information 
he had to go on, from the rebel 
leaders and his own intelligence peo- 
ple, indicated that the movement 
had a better-than-even chance of 

But he could not, on the other 
hand, permit the Armed Services of 
the United States to give that sup- 
port—sea, air, and logistical— which 
could alone give any security to the 
invading Cuban forces. This he 
could not do because our Allies 
would not have stood for it. Nor 
woidd our "friends"— to use that 
term loosely— in Latin America. So 
he was, at the end, a man impris- 
oned, a leader in gossamer but 
unbreakable chains. He could nei- 
ther forbid the adventure nor yet 
give to it that assistance which it 
must have. 


NOW, parenthetically, I am well 
aware that many will reject this rea- 
soning, on the ground that the Presi- 
dent actually had an overmastering 
first freedom of choice: the choice 
"not to become involved in the thing 
at all." With this argument I per- 
sonally disagree; but whether or not 
I do is not important in the context 
of the realities. These realities are 
that it is Mr. Kennedy who is Presi- 
dent of the United States, not his 
critics and not I; that it is Mr. Ken- 
nedy who is responsible for the se- 
curity and well-being of this country 
and of this hemisphere; that Mr. 
Kennedy had reached the conviction, 
as President of the United States, 
that Castroism was just such a men- 
ace as I have described; that Mr. 
KciHiedy, as PresidciU, bore ilie ter- 
rible onus of taking this terrible risk 


because on his judgment (which in 
this matter was the only relevant 
judgment) it had to be taken. Given 
his convictions, and his singular re- 
sponsibility, wherein was he reull^ 
free to make a free choice? (Mr. 
Roosevelt twenty years before was 
far more nearly free— to order, for 
illustration, a bland but tough oc- 
cupation of Iceland; to "lease" de- 
stroyers to Britain and thus to com- 
mit American naval forces to a war 
we had not then entered.) 

When I told a colleague about my 
notion for this article he suggested 
that my view of a vanished freedom 
of choice and will was extreme. 
What was happening, he believed, 
was simply that this country was at 
last becoming subject to those ex- 
ternal factors which had always in- 
hibited the policies of most other 
"countries. While I see the force of 
this point, I think it does not repudi- 
ate my thesis. For this thesis is not 
simply that freedom of choice has 
been reduced in degree; I submit 
that it has been effectively destro\e(' 
in principle. 

I do not assert, of course, that 
President and Congress and countr) 
cannot make policy anymore; I assert 
that they can make no policy of an 
importance on the old bases of rea 
sonably free will, judgment, an( 
choice between rational alternati^c^ 
This state of affairs cannot be ex 
plained sufficiently by our loss ( 
geographic and political isolation 
So I assert that for the President, tin 
Congress, and the country, there i 
no rest, any time, as there used to b 
some possibility to rest, even at ih 
worst of times. 

It is, of course, entirely correct t^ 
say that all Allies have always lia' 
to submit partially to the wishes ant 
notions of other Allies. But what i 
new in kind, and not merely in de 
gree, about the present position i 
this: Never before has a single couii 
try held so great a responsibility foi 
so large a part of the common d( 
fensc of so many countries— and 
the same time held so little coi 
mand authority. Without author 
to command, responsibility beco 
a capricious and undischargea 
burden. And there is yet more to 

For now we must approach 
issues, perforce, not on their intrins| 
merits, but only in automatic real 
tion to the Cold War. We pond 



1 to education not because educa- 
•n is good and necessary; but 
:her because we must not let the 
issians "get ahead" of us. We de- 
te Civil Rights not simply because 
the ethical and legal implications; 
t rather because we fear the Rus- 
ns will make propaganda capital 
our racial unfairness. We try to 

to the moon not because this 
»uld be one of the most splendid 
ventures in all the story of man- 
id; but rather because we must 
at the Russians there. The United 
ites government would not now be 
empting the moon if there were 

Soviet Union; we would not be 
ing to hurl every lad of fourteen 
to a physics class if there were no 
viet Union. 


J D E E D , Avith the loss of free 
Igment (and to some unhappy ex- 
it even of free debate), there is 
other loss, the loss of innocence, 
; final end of the good old Sum- 
irtime, as it were. For our small 
Idren talk familiarly, with a kind 
jaded horror, of what might come 
any moment from the skies; and 
n they are thrown into the race 
:h the Russians. 

ioys and even girls in their early 
ns are being given scholastic bur- 
is which men of my college gener- 
on— in our twenties— would have 
arded as oppressive. They grind 
ee and four hours a night. The 
ool principal constantly tells 
m that if they don't watch out 
y won't get into "a good college" 
i so will never, never be able to 
ch up with the Russians. They 

being made middle-aged before 
y reach the age to vote. 

see no point in claiming that 
re is any discernible way out of 
s state of affairs. There isn't; we 
ist go on with the thing as it is 
til— by Providence or by mad, un- 
eseeable circumstance— some rest, 
ae ease, some true freedom of 
>ice may somehow return to this 
rid. But it does seem to me that, 
s being the situation, we might 

at least to ameliorate it. 
iver since I have had any capacity 
atever for serious thought, I have 
;n a convinced, a total, an indoc- 
lated internationalist. Even as a 

small boy, I remember my father 
fuming at the pusillanimous refusal 
of his own country to enter the first 
world war in 1915 rather than wait 
to be dragged into it in 1917. But 
I, for one, am tired now of our na- 
tional habit of worrying overmuch 
about what "they" will think of us 
if we do so and so. I believe we 
should act with candor and honor to 
preserve at least our own nation and 
society, if we can preserve no other. 
I think we should begin to consider 
first what we really think of ori)- 
selves. We should tell our children 
to do a decent day's work at school, 
to do a decent amount of homework 
at night, and then to say to hell with 
it— Radcliffe or no Radcliffe. 

I think we should make our pub- 
lic policies on what we believe to be 
right, and not on what we think 
right-thinking people elsewhere will 
believe right— nor even on what the 
Russians are driving themselves to 
do. We should make up our minds 
for good and all that, though we 
face the distinct possibility of an- 
nihilation, there is in the meantime 
some living to do. I think we should 
try to recapture some part of at least 
one more good old Summertime- 
even if the Russians land on the 
blasted moon with Hammer and 
Sickle in one hand and seven books 
on advanced chemistry in the other. 

Don't misunderstand me. I am 
not urging teen-agers or college stu- 
dents or their teachers to take it easy. 
I mean to say that we shouldn't let 
the Russians push us into doing 
things against our own judgment; 
that we should set our own goals, 
and live our own lives, not simply 
react to what they do. I believe we 
should give more consideration to 
the means of our lives and less to- 
ward their putative ends. For I be- 
lieve we can still have a humane, a 
tolerant, a decent, way of life— if 
only we will restore it. I think it is 
better to die on our feet if it is to 
come to that, as unterrified heirs of a 
great tradition that believed in free- 
dom and gaiety as well as in safely, 
than to live always scrabbling wor- 
riedly about on our confounded 
knees. I think we can reclaim free 
will, free choice, free judgment, if 
only we will; and that these are 
worth saving even if in the process 
we lose a race that we might lose 

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Some Poets of the Year 

And Their Language of Transformation 

Our reviewer this month is the winner of the 
Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1959. 

ON E of my nuclear friends recently con- 
fessed to me that he had never really been 
moved by a poem, that he had only the vaguest 
conception of the nature and function of poetry, 
and that in fact he had often wondered how any 
man of intelligence— at which point he smiled 
enigmatically— could find adequate nourishment 
in the stuff. My brilliant friend is by no means 
;i cultural barbarian. His taste in music and in 
the visual arts is quite sophisticated, and during 
his younger years he had been an assiduous 
reader of fiction. 

On this occasion the extent of his candor led 
me to suspect that he was looking for informa- 
tion, possibly even for help, so that I was happy 
to be able to lend him the book that I had just 
been reading, Elizabeth Sewell's The Orphic 
Voice, subtitled Poetry and Natural History 
(Yale, S7.50), which seemed made to order for his 
specific inquiry. My optimism turned out to be 
ill-founded. On returning the volume a fortnight 
later, he remarked somewhat acidulously, "What 
I need now is a poem to explain the book, if I 
could understand the poem." 

No doubt, Miss Sewell's work must be classi- 
fied as esoteric, but I found it engrossing reading 
just the same. A British philosopher and critic, 
who has written admirable studies of Valery and 
of the literature of nonsense. Miss Sewell con- 
tends that poetry is our most inclusive form of 
thought, the best instrument yet devised for deal- 
ing with wholes, for unifying all the forms in 
nature, whether they pertain to inner or outer 
landscape. She approaches myth and poetry— 
the two are intcrlrKkcd— as a liicroglyf)hic art in- 
tcrpreiivc of ilic niysleries of nature, ";m art 
going back to the duwn of language and rooted 
iti it." What is poetry? "Language is j)octry, and 
:i poem is only the resf>uj(es ol language used 
to ill'- full." 

Miss Sewell tra(es the ()ijihi( myth as ii aj)- 

pears and reappears in the works of several 
major Western writers in order to demonstrate 
her theme that for the last four hundred years 
poetry has been struggling to evolve and perfect 
its biological function in the natural history of 
mankind, that is, its unique capacity for thinking 
about change, process, organisms, and life. The 
countertendency in the modern world has been 
a progress from imaginative and mythological 
and poetic turns of speech toward the logical, 
precise, nonfigurative. Even such luminaries as 
Mallarme and Valery have followed the lead of 
science into an impasse, marked by "a substitu- 
tion of mathematics for poetry as the gauge of 
exactitude and reliability in research." The 
special responsibility of Orphic minds in our 
time is "to begin the task of extending the range 
of biology so that it shall include thinking man, 
and to see how poetry can function as method- 
ology in such a study." 

Even the most ambitious of poets might well 
be paralyzed by so formidable an assignment, but 
Miss Sewell concludes her high enterprise on a 
rather reassuring note: "There is no need to 
think that only superlative poetry has any right 
to survive or that lesser work is not good and 
useful in our common explorations. It lies to 
everyone's hand and we have to return to it, not 
as a vague ornament of life but as one of the 
great living disciplines of the mind, friendly to 
all other disciplines, and offering them and ac- 
cepting from them new resources of power." 

This is not the place for an extended com- 
mentary on the Orj)hic myth, which is only one 
of the faces of the Dionysian archetype, or for a 
detailed analysis of the ambiguities ol Miss 
Sewell's own Orphic voice, by which her argu- 
ment is not always advanced. I can only say that 
the book impresses me despite my reservations, 
and that F h;i\e had it much in mind in my 
lecent reading. 

For a geneial intioduciion to tlie subject of 
poetry, most readeis will fnid Archibald Mac- 
Leish's Poetry and Ex|K'rion<e (Houghton Mif- 
lliii, Vl; more than ordinaiily hel]}lul. Mr. 



MacLeish has a gift for clear exposition and a 
disarming way of discussing abstruse topics, in- 
cluding words as sounds, words as signs, images, 
and metaphor, as though they were simple coun- 
ters in a familiar discourse. I like the story he 
tells of the day when the Nobel Prize physicist. 
Professor Paul Dirac, walked into his laboratory 
and spotted young Robert Oppenheimer, re- 
cently graduated from Harvard, among the ap- 

"Ah," said he, "I understand you combine the 
writing of poetry with the study of physics." 

Oppenheimer pleaded guilty. 

"I simply don't understand it," sighed the 
great man. "In science you try to say what no- 
body has known before in such a way that every- 
body will understand it, whereas in poetry . . ." 

And he stalked out to a chorus of applauding 
laughter. This is not, as it would seem, the end 
of the parable, for MacLeish, whose words I have 
been following, supplies an addendum: 

"But when Ivor Richards heard the tale he 
turned its author's triumph inside out with a 
single word: 'Precisely!' And of course he was 
right. In poetry you do try to say what every- 
body has 'known before' in such a way that no- 
body will 'understand' it, and when you succeed 
you say something at least as significant as that 
famous Second Law of Thermodynamics which 
C. P. Snow has now established as the brain test 
of the new literacy." 

In the above passage MacLeish is at one with 
Miss Sewell. On the other hand, he is impatient 
with the prophetic claims of the inspired voice, 
on which she lays so much stress. "For poetry," 
he asserts, in his chapter on Rimbaud, "is not 
revelation and has no need to pretend it is. 
Poetry is art and does what art can do— which is 
as Lu Chi said, to trap heaven nnd earth in the 
cage of form." And he quotes Maritain's chilling 
admonition to those Prometheans who would try 
to steal the divine fire in spite of God: "It is 
madness to wish to have poetry alone in the 
soul," for if poetry is alone in a soul "which is 
claimed by nothing else and which offers no 
opposition, it will develop a terrible appetite for 
knowledge, a vampire's appetite, which will 
drain all that is metaphysical and moral from 
the man and even all his flesh." 

Perhaps the contradiction here is largely one 
of emphasis. "We shall be lost," writes Miss 
Sewell, "if we let ourselves be persuaded . . . 
that poetry is unconcerned about what is going 
on in the world and in ordinary life, or that the 
poet's life is wholly separated from what he has 
to say. Poetry is a discipline of full involvement 
in life, not of withdrawal from it." Most poets 
bear with remarkable grace their inability to 
attract mobs of readers; what infuriates them is 
the ignorant assumption that their unpopularity 
is to be attributed to the irrelevance or frivolity 
of what they have to say. 

We tend not to concede that poets have a 
wisdom to share with us until they have grown 
old and venerable, although in fact the wisdom 
of poetry has nothing to do with age. The cur- 
rent apotheosis of Robert Frost is a case in noint. 
And in England Robert Graves, after producing 
poems for more than forty-five years, is elected 
to the Chair of Poetry at Oxford, succeeding 
W. H. Auden, and suddenly finds himself ac- 
claimed at sixty-six as the darling of the younger 
poets. Freshness, candor, and idiosyncrasy have 
always been his hallmarks, but for most of his 
career these qualities have only served to prevent 
him from being accepted as an official poet, a 
member of the Establishment. His first-rate, in- 
dependent mind has been replenished by an 
astonishing curiosity, often unabashedly erotic, 
and reinforced by courage. Even his wealth of 
mythic lore has been put to impudent, though 
none the less serious, uses. As Walter Allen re- 
cently observed, "He is, one feels, as much a 
moral as a poetic example." 

What makes Graves particularly attractive to 
the young, into whose generation he has escaped, 
is his invincible elan, his non-rhetoric corres- 
ponding with his non-conformity, his refusal to 
strike imposing attitudes. One can learn from 
him what Rilke learned from Goethe: "I need to 
realize that greatness is not superhuman exer- 
tion but naturalness." The new edition of 
Graves' Collected Poems (Doubleday, $5.95) con- 
tains approximately 270 poems, of which some 
50 are subsequent to the 1955 collection. "The 
Face in the Mirror" is a good example of Graves' 
direct later style: 

Grey haunted eyes, absent-mindedly glaring 

From wide, uneven orbits; one brow drooping 

Somewhat over the eye 

Because of a missile fragment still inhering. 

Skin deep, as a foolish record of old-world fighting. 

Crookedly broken nose— low tackling caused it; 
Cheeks, furrowed; coarse grey hair, flying frenetic; 
Forehead, wrinkled and high; 
Jowls, prominent; ears, large; jaw, pugilistic; 
Teeth, few; lips, full and ruddy; mouth, ascetic. 

I pause with razor poised, scowling derision 

At the mirrored man whose beard needs my attention, 

And once more ask him why 

He still stands ready, with a boy's presumption. 

To court the queen in her high silk pavilion. 

THROUGH all the divagations of his career, 
since he appeared on the scene in the early 
'thirties as one of the Oxford galaxy, Louis Mac- 
Neice has never forfeited his position as a poet 
of first rank. Like Graves, though without his 
audacity, he has striven for a voice at once casual 
and lyric, of sufficient energy to deal with topical 
and dialectical materials, but at the same time 
responsive to his more traditional moods of 
nostalgia and loss. Perhaps because of this im- 
certainty of direction, the voice has not wholly 


.luvooaoa in d.uitMUg iisolt or in 
indiviauaiino it. lompov. though 
il.o incviMhlo .intholo-N pKVO. 
nuKih ol o.nlioi vini.i-v. vomam 
to ho chc.ishoa. as ao iho latoi 
ana lon-oi cxausions inio moving 
coulosional naivaiiNC The poems 
,hat siana up host au those that aoal 

with his North Ivelaua boxho.xl. his 
creative was the reetor s 
.on. horn to the anohean oraer./ 
Raunea forever irom the eaiules ot 
,he Irish ixHM-'-or that rot\eet a 
poUtical passion, or that roek spon- 
taneoush into a strouii heat: 

It's no oo iho nionvooivund. it's no ?o 

the rickshaw. 
All wo want is a limousine and a tuku 

for the poepshow. 

Uvu -UaiipiiK Musie." which never 
stops skirliuii trom beginning to eml. 
is one ol those founa" poems, the 
hukv strike ol a worUl ana of a time, 
that caturot he fouiul again even m 
ihe unlikx:lN event that the pt>et 
^^oula gv> UH>king for ii. From the 
hoav of his ^vork M.uNoice has se- 
Untea Eightv-Five Poems (^Oxlora, 
k1.:>0^. of which the earliest is dated 
UVJ7. ana the latest 193S. 

lOHN lUTlFMANS aut.v 
bioijraphN in vei-^e. Summoned bv 
Btdls (^Houghion Mitllm. ^:> • v^''> -» 
smashing siueess in Enghma. Thi> 
account.' carried through the Oxford 
NeaiN. -of some moments in the 
sheUereil life of a middle-class 
Nouth" is written in a smooth-llow- 
iusi blank vei^^e that blends famih 
anmlotes. bicvcle trips, first loves 
and teas. Cornish holidaxs. schwl- 
bin pranks, antiquarian and literarv 
pui^uiis. and tributes ti> old friends 
and teachei>i into a mixture that 
is sometimes poignant. fret|ueiuly 
comic, and alwaxs readable. It is a 
W ordsworthian Prrludr wiihiHii the 
philosophic weight or the Orphic 
intensitx What American ixtec. one 
wonders. ct>uld prixiucc a work of 
iluN comjxtence and stale out ot 
such blaiul m-.teiials? Or. it. pt>se 
ihc qucMion diJicrenih. wh\ is it 
ihat t' l«*-t^^h ♦^^ conditions Un 

the c; e of a |xxM in this coun 

,\ would seem lo tx 'ectetl 

,hiMhood, a decorous I ""'- 


torn between several choices, not in- 
chuling the one that eventuatea. but 
1 think that lUN consulerea vote 
wouia h.ive gone to Richard I ber- 
hut lor his Collmed Poems 19M)- 
\m) ^Oxford. Sh^. including fiftv-one 
rcw poemv. In an autobiographical 
sketch published a few voais ago. 
Vberhart revoalea the kiiul ot cir- 
cnmstaiu-o ana vision thai is most 
likelv to aisturb a twentieih-contur\ 
American into art: 

What probahlv made me a poet 
\vas the death of mv mother, at fortv- 
ois^ht. «^r cancer of the lung, ^vho.i 
T ""was eighteen. 1 witnessed mti- 
matelv her nine-month birth of death 
throuJih utmost pain. I lived the al- 
Uh^mv of life in that time. 

M\ f.nh-r was the son of a Meth- 
odist minister. He became the vice 
president of Geoi-ge A. Hormel JL- Co. 
He was betraved bv the nonnious Cv 
Th«M«pson. who embe/zkxl over a 
Tnillion dollars from the companv. Mv 
father lost his fortune, hut not his 
spirit, his vast recuperative powers, 
his sense of humor, or his t>owerful 
love of life. He was formidable, lai-ge. 
epical, inviolable, a masterful man. 

The violent chan£ris in mv earlv 
world subsixiueiuh dnne me around 
the world and to C.ambridiie I'nivor- 
siiv in search of truth. The spirit of 
poetrv is the nearest I have ever 
come to its pn^found but subtle 


I K I hatl hat! an\ 
the award of the 1 
p.wii\ this Ncai. 1 s 

> ilo willi 

Pri/c (or 

I1.1VC l>ern 

El^erhart is a prolific and uneven 
p<xn. but he has written at least a 
handful of poems-sufficient lor a 
lifetime-ihat are incomparabh pure 
and radiant. Even in the midst of 
the flawed and sometimes banal 
verses, one can never be quite sure 
when the spirit will strike and the 
sparks begin to flv. To him the nat- 
ural world is full of wondei^ and 
delights, and language is vet another 
nature. The irans|xMt that he feels 
in the midst of life is a spontaneous 
breath, which he c;uinot exhaust or 
git>w tired of. His unique position 
among us is to be the pcxn of the un- 
j..ded"c\e. the unsuUen heart. ^Vho 
else could title one of his jx^ems "A 
Ship Binning and a Comet All in 
One Da\"? 

He is usually at his best when he 
fuses, into aii essential harmonN. 
inner and outer lamUcajx. the visual 
and the \isionan. the particular and 
,he u! FquiNalence of Gnats 

and M >ne «»l his new iHieins. 

provides an example: 

\s I pillar ol s;nats. moving up and down 
ui lane air. toward opulent sunset. 
Weaving themselves in and out. up 
and down. 

As diaplKuious as visual belief. 

In scintillant imagination, is slightest 

Weaves a major hannonv oi nature: 

\s tiuN fuid mice are saved from the 

B\ .1 lean seven tv-vear-old sother m 

Wlio brings them in. savin-. "Thev have 
enemies enough": 

Who are hand fed bv a dn^pper on mill 

and water. 
Hoping vhe small creatures will sur^ 

and thrive. 
Slight event against the history- of 


\x is necessan- to hail delicacv 
Whenever encountered in nature 

or man: 
No dishamionv come near this poem. 

volume of verse. The \Voman aj jhe 
\Vashington Ztw ^Atheneum. S5./:.). 
:v inner of the National Btnik Award 
for Poetrv. contains nineteen new 
pi^ms and twelve translations. In 
the title-piece, with a dramatic single 
stroke in the opening line--Thc 
saris ijo bv me from the embassies - 
a colorful and cosmopolitan work' 
is evoked. The next movement 1^ 
toward the dark, for the speaker whc 
stands before the cages, this govern 
mem clerk in her "dull null naNA. 
knows that the colors and the p>> 
sibilitv of colors have been washe. 
out of her life. She senses her kn 
ship with and xet her difterence fron 
the animals. 

these beings trappet 
As 1 am trapped but not. themselves 

the trap. 
Aging, but without knowledge of thei 

Kept safe here, knowing not of death. 

for death— 
Oh. bars of mv own bixlv. t^pen. open. 

ErapiKxl in her loneb and defeatej 
tlesh. she i> woi-se off than the ca| 
tive beasts, for "the world gix-s t 
mv cage and ncNcr sees me." Nor 
she visitetl. as are the beasts, by iha 
who feed on their leavings: sparrov 
pigei>ns. buzzards. Her life is tc 
starveil for leavings. What a grl 
world: What a bleakness! And ju 
when we arc read> to turn awa 


Jarrell does something magical and 
triumphant with his woman at the 
foo. He has her cry out, addressing 
the predatory bird who is the figure 
of lover-death, such words of shame- 
less agony that the despair is trans- 
formed into a kind of tragic exalta- 
tion, and the true colors of the 
world, terrible though they may be, 
pour back into the poem: 


When you cf)mc for the white rat that 

the loxcs left, 
Take off the red helmet of your head, 

the black 
Wings that have shadowed me, and step 

to me as man: 
The wild lirothcr at whose feet the white 

wolves fawn. 
To whose hand of power the great 

Stalks, purring. . . . 

You know what I was, 
You see what I am: change me, 

change me! 

In a sense all the voices in all of 

Jarrell's poems are crying, "Change 

:ne!" The young yearn to be old in 

jider to escape from their nocturnal 

ears; the old long for the time of 

heir youth, no matter how poor and 

'iTiiserable it was, for "in those days 

ijverything was better"; life is mov- 

■ ng toward the death; the dead are 

'Inoving back into life, and wherever 

hey come, they come in disguises. 

'^^ t is a world of shifts and changes, 

"as in a fairy tale, and the only reason 

^ ou suspect it is more is that Cinder- 

11a and the Dwarfs and the Frog 

rince are just as real and as 

roubled as the zoo woman or your 

"Aunt Nan. Karl Shapiro once 

""■cutely observed that Jarrell's "al- 

lost obsessive return to the great 

j^hildhood myths is sometimes as 

ainful as psychoanalysis," and that 

le subtitle of his work might well 

die "Hansel and Gretel in America." 

l^hat Hansel and Gretel tell us is 

lat the woods are dark and that the 

"eatures who inhabit them change 

leir skins. In the mythic imagina- 

j, on, as defined by Elizabeth Sewell, 

pietamorphosis is the great theme 

l^,nderlying all others. "Self-trans- 

• )rmation," commented Rilke, whom 

,jj|irrell translates nine times in this 

)lume, "is precisely what life is." 

,,, Y remarks on the poets that fol- 
w must, of necessity, be brief, but 
le brevity is not to be taken in it- 
If as a form of judgment: 



in Esquire ... on Khrushchev 

He lives under an iron necessity to be 
right. What he perhaps remembers best 
about men who were not right is their 

in Esquire ...on DeGaulle 

If he were to die, to depart or to be de- 
posed by force before bringing about an 
honorable end to the Algerian war, then 
France would become another Spain, sub- 
jected to a Franco-like dictatorship. 


in Esquire ... on Otto Preminger 

In an industry whose poet laureate is 
Louella Parsons, whose foreign policy 
spokesman is Spyros Skouras, and whose 
red badge of courage is a small seal indi- 
cating compliance with a moral code laid 
down by Warren Harding's Postmaster Gen-' 
eral, a Preminger can become a giant by 


in Esquire ... on social climbing 

Although it is possible to live a successful 
life in the United States without ever no- 
ticing class differences, for those so- 
minded our social structure is actually 
every bit as complex and hieretic as the 
ancient Byzantine court . . . "Inequality," 
observed William Dean Hov/ells somewhat 
unexpectedly, "is as dear to the American 
heart as liberty itself." 


In Esquire ... on historical novels 

I wish people would either write history, 
or write novels, or go out and sell nylons. 


in Esquire ... on 0. H. Lawrence 

He could not stand to be touched. He evi- 
dently was not homosexual but anti-sexual, 
repelled by intimacy of any kind and ex- 
ceedingly uncomfortable with women, per- 
haps because he grew up in a family of 
males and spent his life in male occu- 


in The New York Herald-Tribune 
... on Esquire 

Esquire assumes you're a part of the avant 
garde, or otherwise what are you doing 
reading the magazine? This is marvelously 
flattering, and it seems to be working 
with a vast number of readers. 

Not since the halycon days of Vanity 
Fair has any magazine become such a re- 
pository for what is controversial, com- 
pelling and colorful. Even rival publica- 
tions doff their hats to today's new 
Esquire: The Nation calls it "the best- 
edited mass magazine being published in 
the United States." If you haven't taken a 
look at Esquire recently, the coupon below 
offers you an economical way to sample 
its new features and fiction, delight in its 
striking new artists and photographers, 
take pleasure in its many typographic and 
layout innovations. Mail the coupon today, 
and your subscription will include without 
extra cost Esquire's famed $l-a-copy year- 
end annual — a Jubilee Edition put together 
with such Medici splendor that previous 
issues have become collector's items. 
Charge your subscription if you like. 



Please print 



including year-end Jubilee Annual 

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I Clip and mail today to Dept, 0960 Esquire, Boulder, Colorado I 



Ho^sard NemeroA. New and Se- 
lected Poems (University o£ Chicago, 
$3.50). . . . The adjective for this col- 
lection of some sixty poems is fine, 
applicable to craft, intelligence, 
sympathy, and wit. It would be diffi- 
cult to imagine so consummate an 
artificer writing a wholly bad poem 
-is that a weakness? The urbanity 
of the tone is often a mask for the 
depth of the feeling. Syntax, like 
mind, is supple. Occasionally the 
diction turns stiff or literary: "And 
yet there is the horror of the fact,/ 
Though we knew not the man." On 
the whole, the new poems are Nem- 
erov's best. 

Charles Olson, The Distances 
(Grove, 31-75). . . . The themes are 
sex, civilization, and art, mostly the 
last, for nearly all of Olson's work is 
a form of Poetics, though not of the 
dismal school, being full of beans. 
For years Olson has been a hero of 
the avant-garde and the private 
presses, though unknown to the com- 
mon reader. He will no longer have 
the pleasure of working under- 
ground. His object: "to cut this new 
instant open." How? By declaring 
war on iambics and rhyme ("the 
dross of verse"); by striving for an 
open organic form ("no line must 
sleep"); by producing a live look on 
the page, with benefit of typography; 
by insisting, sometimes in Latin, that 
the idiom must be colloquial; by 
professing inside information about 
history and women; by attacking 
fools and enemies and false ances- 
tors; by sounding direct and walking 
tangential; by paying homage to 

Words, form 

but the extension of 



Style, est verbum 

The word 

is image, and the reverend reverse is 


is verse 

P O K T S arc the first to concede 
that the translation of poetry is an 
impossibility, but the knowledge 
docs not deter them from the elfori. 
In lact, iriosi poets are used to living 
with impossibility, since it is forever 
iiriplicit in the threat of their next 
jjoem. To regard translation as pri- 
marily an educative task is to under- 

estimate its significance. The change 
of a poem from one language mto 
another is, at bottom, an act of trans- 
formation, a living metaphor for the 
whole mythic process that is the root 
of poetry. The best translations ar? 
born of love, and both parties to the 
contract must be expected to yield 
a portion of their identity. The great 
activity in translation that marks 
our age is a process of unification at 
the deepest level that may well out- 
weigh in the end the failures of 
diplomacy. For a demonstration of 
the problems inherent in this ac- 
tivity, no more illuminating text can 
be recommended than The Poem It- 
self (Holt, $6.50), edited by Stanley 
Burnshaw, in association with Dud- 
ley Fitts, Henri Peyre, and John F. 
Nims. Forty-five poets of the last 
hundred years, writing in French, 
Spanish, German, Italian, and Por- 
tuguese are here presented, not in 
verse translations, but in the original 
language, accompanied by a literal 
rendering and a detailed prose com- 
mentary on the word-stuff of each 
poem. The design of this elaborate 
project, as opposed to re-creation in 
verse, is frankly pedagogic, but no 
student of foreign literature can af- 
ford to miss this book. 

Robert Fitzgerald's translation of 
The Odyssey (Doubleday, $4.95) is 
destined to become the standard one 
for this generation. Poet and classi- 
cal scholar, he has turned the great 
Homeric hexameter into a blank- 
verse line that is at once strong and 
easy, eloquent and relaxed, capable 
of rendering the domestic scenes 
without flatness and of rising to 
heroic levels without strain. Paren- 
thetically, the Greeks, above all the 
modern Greeks, are very much with 
us this year. Rae Dalven has given 
us, for the first time in English, The 
Complete Poems of Cavafy (Har- 
court, Brace, $6.75), 187 poems of 
the Alexandrian sybarite who died 
in 1933, explorer of the corrupt 
alleys of the heart, glittering witness 
to the sickness unto death, in whose 
art the rituals of purification are 
dispassionately performed. A poet of 
comparable stature, though of a dif- 
ferent order, is George Seferis, Greek 
ambassador to London- where are 
our poel-aml)assadors?-whose collec- 
tion of Poems (Little, Brown, 
$3.75), iranslaied by Rex Warner, 
makes evident why he is acknowl- 


edged to be one of the three or four J" 
most important living European 
poets. Seferis' work is mythic and 
cosmic, but saved from grandiosity 
by the beautiful rigor of his style. 
He is quoted as saying, "In my 
poverty is my strength." Though 
they speak of and to contemporary 
man, his poems draw sustenance 
from the ancient world and Seferis 
himself as protagonist is often 
metamorphosed into a sea captani 
who is the ghost of Odysseus. Both 
Cavafy and Seferis appear, amon^ 
others, in Six Poets of Modev 
Greece (Knopf, $5), translated I 
Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrarc' 
editors of infallible taste, whose i 
troduction and notes are exceeding! 

From the French we have at las; 
in Robert Lowell's pellucid heroic 
cctuplets a translation of Racine's 
Phaedra (Farrar, Straus, $5) that is 
worthy of its source. Lowell has 
tried, as he says, for "an idiomatic 
and ageless style," adapted from the 
meter of Dryden and Pope. The 
English-speaking theatre will be 
richer for the redemption of a 
masterpiece that has previously lost 
its glory in translation. The same 
volume contains an energetic prose 
translation, by Jacques Barzun, of 
Beaumarchais' Figaro's Marriage. ^ 

With his left hand, so to speak, j ^ 
Robert Fitzgerald has translated Tl 
Chronique (Pantheon, $3) by the 
Nobel Prize-winner St.-John Perse, 
who has been fortunate in his trans- 
lators ever since T. S. Eliot intro- 
duced his Anabasis more than thirty ; 
years ago. Chronique may be read as 
the valedictory of a poet in his mid- 
seventies. In his characteristically 
high, resonant, and multi-layered 
style, with which Fitzgerald's more 
Apollonian voice has occasional diffi- 
culties, St.-John Perse addresses "the 
great age" here and to come from the 
height of his own "great age." In 
some respects the most personal ant! 
poignant of his works, folded in 
memories of his tropic childhood, 
heavy with the thought of tasks <!«"« 
and tasks uncompleted, Chronique, ^ 
nevertheless bespeaks the poet's dig 
nity and faith as he breathes the an 
of a grand destiny: 

Listen, O night, in the deserted court 
yards and under the solitary ardies 
amid the holy ruins and the crumblmi 
of old termite iiills, hear the grea 









sovereign foollalls ol the soul without a 

Like a wild beast prowling a pave- 

nent of bronze. 


Great age, behold us. Take the meas- 
ire of man's heart. 

N the vein of valedictory I cannot 
esist the temptation to quote an un- 
orgettable quatrain by Paul Dehn 
n his Quake, Quake, Quake, A 
Leaden Treasury of English Verse 
Simon & Schuster, $3.50), aptly de- 
cribed by the publisher as "hair- 
aising parodies of familiar verses," 
vith equally fiendish illustrations by 
idward Gorey: 

) nuclear wind, when wilt thou blow 
That the small rain down can rain? 
hrist, that my love were in my arms 
And I had my arms again. 


in brief 



he Delights of Detection, edited 
nd with an introduction by Jacques 
To read Mr. Barzun's introduction 

these seventeen stories is to be 
ost pleasurably cued into the se- 
cts of the art of literary detection, 
nd pleasure is, as he points out, the 
'ry heart of the matter. For Mr. 
arzun (as opposed to W. H. Auden, 
ho prefers them long) detective fic- 
)n reaches the height of its perfec- 
3n in the short story (though he 
lints out the pitfalls here too) and 

makes a brilliant case for his 

Mnt of view. For him the literature 

detection deals, strictly speaking, 

ly with detection. The "psycho- 

gical novels of suspense" (though 

admires some) are not of the 
nre. Perhaps the best way to give 
e flavor of his argument is in a 
ies of quotes: 

What is required is that the main 
interest of the story should consist 
in finding out, from circumstances 
largely physical, the true order and 
meaning of events that have been 
part disclosed and part concealed. 
Crime is attractive but incidental. 

Mr. Barzun doesn't read detective 
stories to discover "real characters," 
or to "appreciate the moral burdens 
of the times," or to explore "some 
unfamiliar region of the world": 

The tale may teach nothing but its 
own neatness, and its effect then is to 
bring a smile to the lips rather than 
a commotion to the soul. . . . 

What do we gain from the details 
of detection? An understanding, first, 
of the silent life of things, and next, 
of the spectacle of the mind at work. 
This is no doubt why detective feats 
have been, since Voltaire and Poe, 
the delight of intellectuals. The emo- 
tion called forth is that of seeing 
order grow out of confusion. . . . 

To sum it all up without going 
into the refinements of his argument 
or into his disctission of style which 
is a delight in itself: 

The detective story is a tale. The 
pleasure it affords is that of any nar- 
rative in which the ancient riddle of 
who is who unravels itself to an ac- 
companiment of worldly wisdom. In 
the detective tale proper there is 
a doul)le satisfaction answering a 
double curiosity— what can the solu- 
tion be? and how was the solution 
arrived at? But to recapture this in- 
nocent pleasure one must be sophisti- 
cated enough to abdicate other 

The book includes seven "classic 
tales," seven "modern tales," and 
three "historic tales." A "hostess" 
present that the donor can be the 
first to enjoy. Criterion, $5.95 

Best Detective Stories of the Year, 

edited by Brett Halliday. 

This annual collection of twenty 
short stories is chosen by a man who 
has no complicated method of selec- 
tion. "I don't know what my own 
standards are for judging a story," he 
says. "Above all else, I think, I de- 
mand that the writer have a story to 
tell. [See Mr. Barzun's italicized 
'tale.'] Then he must tell it well. 
Catching my interest with the open- 
ing paragraph, and keeping me read- 
ing eagerly to the final word. Each 
of these stories does exactly that." If 
this isn't recommendation enough, 
may I remind all mystery buffs that 
Mr. Halliday is the creater of Mike 
Shayne. Button, $3.95 

The Wycherly Woman, by Ross 

Since I don't often have time to 



Robert E. Spiller and Eric 
Larrabee, Editors. Com- 
ments from an unusually 
lively group of experts range 
skillfully over American emo- 
tional and intellectual trends, 
ideological and technical 
changes, as reflected in mul- 
tiple facets of our national 
culture from 1900 to 1950. 
Library of Congress Series in 
American Civilization $4.75 


At all booksellers 


Cambridge 38, Mass. 

and unusual 


A. new catalogue of the famous Metropolitan 
Museum cards — each one based on a work of 
art from the Museum's own collections. This 
year, a Japanese goldsmith's sketch, a rubbing 
from a medieval church bell, five prancing 
deer from a patchwork quilt, a carved golden 
angel, a jeweled book cover from an Armenian 
manuscript, and a Victorian Christmas illus- 
tration are some of the sources of the nearly 
sixty new designs. -^ All of the cards are 
printed under the direct supervision of the 
Metropolitan Museum in limited editions, 
and cost from 5 to 95 cents each. They can 
be bought only by mail or at the Museum 
itself. The catalogue — which also illustrates 
Museum jewelry and other unusual Christmas 
presents-will be mailed about September 1st. 

The Metropolitan Museum of Art 

253 Grade Station, New York 28 

Please send me the Museum's new catalogue 
of Christmas cards, 25 cents enclosed H l 


Address . 


read detective fiction and am in no 
wav knowledgeable about its fine 
points, I find myself easily persuaded 
to try to apply Mr. Barzun's criteria 
to those stories I've read-this month. 
Of course the books noted below are 
none of them short stories and so by 
very size at once escape the bounds of 
his fairly rigid definitions of what 
the detective story is and what it is 
not. Yet they are, as books go, 
shorter than most and manage to 
keep pretty hard on the trail of 
whatever mystery they pursue even 
when the classic unities are cjuite 
ignored and the chase covers rather 
large areas and, in at least one 
case, considerable time. ... In The 
Wychrrly Woman the solution of a 
mysterious disappearance and violent 
death in and around San Francisco 
is master-minded by Lee Asher in 
suave and charming fashion. Humor 
and sophistication are in the writing 
as well as in the plot. (Mr. Barzun 
says, "The true tone of the genre 
springs from the alliance of murder 
and mirth. The laughter is a touch 
sardonic and must never degenerate 
into hilarity. The joke of death is on 
us.") The pursuit is physically and 
intellectually exciting, the lost lady 
is a young girl, the death-well, see 
for yourself and enjoy it all the way. 
Ross Macdonald is the author of 
The Ferguson Affair and The Gal- 
lon Case. Knopf, $3.50 

One for My Dame, by Jack Webb. 
Here, in the background experi- 
ence of our "hero," the narrator and 
self-appointed sleuth in this story, we 
have at once what Mr. Barzun calls 
one of the "moral burdens" of our 
time, and not as a minor factor 
either. Rick Jackson spent more 
than two years in a POW camp on 
the Yalu River where he learned all 
there was to know about brain-wash- 
ing, violence, and death, so that his 
reactions as he meets these terrors 
in the story, are pretty well con- 
ditioned. But it is all very much an 
integral part of the plot. From the 
time of Rick's release from prison 
;ind his return home till the night 
the story begins, lie has in a sense 
retired from the human race. He 
owns a pet shop where tropical fish 
iire his passion and lives alone in a 
small apartment above the shop with 
VVf>lf, a great Dane, a sqiiiiiel 
monkey (mIIk! riii;i. and a niyna 


bird whose language he is trying to 
clean up. How did such a recluse get 
involved with a beautiful girl, num- 
berless murders in, of all places, a 
mortuary, and a West Coast branch 
of political underground? Those are 
the questions which are unraveled 
in this mad and romantic tale. With 
all these elements it surely is not one 
of Mr. Barzun's classic tales but it is 
written with enough speed and flair 
to make the distractions seem not 
red herrings but the very stuff of his 
plot. Mr. Webb's former heroes, I'm 
told, have been Father Shanley and 
Sammy Golden. I've never read of an 
amateur detective who took more of 
a physical beating than his new hero, 
Rick Jackson, does in this book, but 
as he's survived it with such hu- 
morous bounce there's no reason 
why he shouldn't have a big future. 
Rinehart, $2.95 . 

guerrilla warfare; the native groups 
struggle among themselves; and a 
sense of imminent change hangs ovei 
all. The characters are "real" ai; 
right, and so is the political anc 
geographical atmosphere. It is wel 
written and well translated and fo 
those who like their murders mixet 
with honest soul-searching, this is it 

Farrar, Straus & Cudahy, $3.9p 

' illia: 


ns: ; 


Barbarian's Country, by Jean Houg- 
ran, translated by Geoffrey Sains- 


Although this novel follows the 
definition of good detective fiction 
in starting with a murder whose 
solution leads on to the end, it strays 
from the classic since before we are 
through we have certainly explored 
an "unfamiliar region of the world" 
(contemporary Indochina) and the 
narrator, a young Frenchman, is 
much more concerned with discover- 
ing his own identity and the true 
character of his hated-and mur- 
dered-father than he is in finding 
the murderer. To Mr. Barzun I 
think this would be unbearable dis- 
traction, but it is the very essence of 
this novel. Philippe Couvray, son of 
a rich coffee planter and mine owner, 
has been born and brought up in 
Southeast Asia in a conservative 
colonial atmosphere. Even as a child 
and ever after, Philippe has dis- 
agreed with his father on social and 
political attitudes and they have 
treated each other with open hos- 
tility. So it is a great surprise to 
everybody when, after the murder, it 
is discovered that the whole fortune 
and property have been left not to 
an adored sister but to Philippe. He 
determines to return to the plan- 
tation in North Indochina where he 
grew up to search for the secret of his 
fniher's life and his own. There is 
niu(h of modern politics here; the 
Connnunists are waging constant 

Lizzie Borden: The Untold Stor) 
by Edward D. Radin. 

This is not fiction. It is deductioi 
based on real facts, real clues, re^t 
records, of murders that happene 
more than half a century ago in Fa! 
River, Massachusetts, yet in its bri 
liant pursuit of a solution to an ui 
solved crime and in its literary grac 
one must certainly include it amon 
books which furnish "delights of d 
tection." Indeed on the jacket M 
Barzun himself says: "Anyone wh 
thinks he knows the Borden ca 
from earlier accounts finds hei 
novelty on every page and cann« 
help recasting his conclusions." . . 
In 1924 Edmund Pearson wrote h 
book about Lizzie Borden and sin 
then nearly everything that has be< 
written about the famous hatch 
murders has been based on what 1 
wrote. In his view Miss Borden w 
guilty of the double murder of h 
father and step-mother in 1892. Ai 
this in spite of her acquittal at t 

Mr. Radin, a veteran newspap 

-eporter of murder trials, has tw 

won "Edgars" from the Myst(^ 

Writers of America for fact-crime 

porting. He read Mr. Pearson's bo 

and was struck by what seemed | 

him to be inconsistencies in the 

port of the testimony. He beca: 

interested in the case; he talked 

everyone still alive who remembei 

the trial and Lizzie Borden; he o 

suited the only known copy of ' 

official minutes of the Fall Ri 

court hearing; compared what 

found in the original court reco 

with Mr. Pearson's book; and cor 

up with an extraordinary and m 

convincing document. The chai 

be I 

ters are better drawn than in m;|^^ 
novels as Mr. Radin reveals the f: 
about them, and he recreates 
atmosphere of Fall River in the 
summer of the murders so thai 


! !iithi 
I lishe 




.1 :ent 



I II of 



I er 





ems as breathless and ready for 
I olence as it must have been. The 
cture of daily life, habits, clothes, 
od, plumbing, etc., the very stuff of 
'tection, should delight histor- 
ns; and the story as he tells it is 
'1 of relentless excitement though 

tten with quiet understatement 

ked up with well-established fact. 

•> book is a strong defense of Lizzie 
)rden; he demolishes Pearson in a 

lliant chapter which still manages 
be deferential and polite; and he 
i another remarkable chapter sug- 
ting who the real murderer might 
The book is full of all sorts of 
uthing satisfactions and one 
ishes it feeling utterly identified 
h an era and a place as well as 
h the cast of characters in two of 

most baffling murders in police 
tory. Simon & Schuster, $4.50 


Another examination of a more 
cut trial and murder will be pub- 
led by McKay in mid-August. The 
ppard Murder Cose is by Paul 
Imes and has a foreword by Erie 
nicy Gardner ($4).] 

t of My League, by George Plimp- 

his brief account of an amateur's 
inent of dubious glory on the 
hing mound of the Yankee Sta- 
in is far more than just a night- 
e or another book about base- 
; it is high comedy of the most 
nizing and gripping sort. The 
lor, consumed with a desire to 
w what it feels like to pitch un- 
major-league conditions, ar- 
?ed with the help of $1,000 put 
by Sports Illustrated, to face a 
i^r of National and American 
?ue batters before an all-star 
e. He is, obviously, a better than 
age athlete, but he keeps train- 
no better than most authors, and 
aioment of truth on the mound 
the days and hours that precede 
aove with the awful (but con- 
tly entertaining) inevitability of 
reek tragedy. Anyone who has 
played baseball in a sand lot or 
has sat on the bench half hop- 
and half fearing that he may be 
m a game will find that there is 
rt of him that is Mr. Plimpton. 
Harper, $3.50 

-n, the Red-eyed Vireo, by Mil- 
White. With an introductory 

poem by Ogden Nash. Illustrated by 
F. B. Modell. 

This little book is not only funny 
as any good spoof on bird watchers 
is bound to be; it is gracefully writ- 
ten and oddly and surprisingly 
touching as well. So don't just read 
Ogden Nash's introductory poem 
and let it go at that. Not that read- 
ing "Up from the Egg: The Con- 
fessions of a Nuthatch Avoider" isn't 
an experience in itself. Any poem 
that begins . . . 

Bird watchers top my honors list. 
I aimed to be one but I missed. 

and ends . . . 

But I sometimes visualize in my gin 
The Audubon that I audubin. 

is bound to be equally rewarding 
through its middle, as this one most 
surely is. Just don't stop there. The 
whole book is a real pleasure. 

Doubleday, $2.75 


Series of Series 

I find it impossible myself to keep 
up with names and subject matter 
of the new groupings of paperbacks 
and other publications, but I am al- 
ways glad to be exposed to them at 
least once. Lippincott has just 
launched a series called Keystone 
Short Stories at $1.65. (They also 
come in hard covers at $3.50.) The 
first three publications are The 
Dignity of Night by Klaus Roehler, 
Color of Darkness, by James Purdy, 
and The Games of Night, by Stig 
Dagerman. The Purdy is a reprint; 
the others are originals. There will 
be four more titles in the fall. 

In September, Doubleday's Anchor 
Books are sponsoring the first books 
in a new series called The Natural 
History Library in co-operation with 
the American Museum of Natural 

In the same month Houghton 
Mifflin will launch twelve "paper- 
backs" in what they call "permanent 
inexpensive format" of Sentry Edi- 
tions to be devoted to the literary 
and historical heritage of America. 
Among the first publications are two 
Pulitzer Prize winners and such au- 
thors as Bernard DeVoto, Thoreau, 
Henry Adams, Willa Gather, Doro- 
thy Baker (Young Man With a 
Horn), and Margaret Coit. The 
prices range from $1.20 to $2.45. 


By a Wall Street Journal 

Not long ago I picked up my first copy 
of The Wall Street Journal. I expected 
duU reading. Imagine my surprise when 
1 found some of the best articles I'd ever 

I sent for a Trial Subscription. For the 
first time in my life I began to under- 
stand why some men get ahead while 
others stay behind. I read about new in- 
ventions, new industries and new ways 
of increasing my income. Also I got ideas 
on what to do to reduce living expenses 
and taxes. My Trial Subscription to The 
Journal cost me $7. It was the luckiest 
$7 I ever spent. It has put me hundreds 
of dollars ahead already. 

This story is typical. The Journal is 
a wonderful aid to men making $7 500 
to $25,000 a year. To assure speedy 
delivery to you anywhere in the US 
The Journal is printed daily in seven 
cities from coast to coast. 

The Wall Street Journal has the largest 
staff of writers on business and finance. 
It costs $24 a year, but in order to ac- 
quamt you with The Journal, we make 
this offer: You can get a Trial Subscrip- 
tion for 3 months for $7. Just send this 
ad with check for $7. Or tell us to bill you. 
Address: The Wall Street Journal, 44 
Broad St., New York 4, N. Y. hm 8 


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BOX 3003 .-J"NAT.ONAL BOOK HNOHPS ,,^_ ^^^^^_ 

MUSIC in the round 



Stravinsky and Poulenc stand up to 
play their music as they see fit — and, 
ignoring the critics, as conductors they 
make musical history. 

The Russians would probably call 
it cult of the personality. In his 
newest album, Igor Stravinsky con- 
ducts the Columbia Symphony Or- 
chestra in two of his most popular 
pieces— Petrouchka and Le Sacre du 
Printemps. He also narrates, on one 
complete side of a disc, something 
about Sacre— its inception, its orches- 
tration, anecdotes about Diaghileff 
and others. He also writes an essay 
or two in the accompanying booklet. 
He even draws a sketch of the St. 
Petersburg he knew as a child and as 
a young man. 

All this, to be sure, is most inter- 
esting, and the album is of un- 
doubted historic importance (Colum- 
bia DSL 300, mono, 5 sides; D3S 614, 
stereo, 5 sides). Stravinsky is one of 
the major musical forces of the cen- 
tury, with a secure place in the his- 
tory books of the future. Thus his 
remarks are oral history. To hear 
him chatting, in his Russian-French- 
flavored voice, about the scandale of 

the Sacre premiere, to listen to his 
frequently amusing and sometimes 
malicious remarks about this or that, 
is to have an inevitable train of 
hackneyed thoughts ensue. Some- 
thing like: why wasn't recording in- 
vented in the days of Bach and 
Mozart; and other such useful reflec- 

Stravinsky may or may not be a 
good conductor. Opinions vary on 
the point. Some professionals call 
him inept and awkward— a composer- 
conductor who has never learned to 
balance one choir against another. 
But another segment of critical op- 
inion has it that Stravinsky is the 
greatest of all conductors of his own 
music— that he knows how it should 
sound and manages somehow to get 
his ideas across. 

I myself incline toward the latter 
view. It may be that his detractors 
are reading bad things into his con- 
ducting because he looks so helpless 
and awkward on the podium. The 
fact remains that he brings to his 
own music an approach that nobody 
else has been able to duplicate. 
Stravinsky scored Petrouchka and 
Sacre violently, with surges of bar- 
baric color that out-Rimskied Rim- 
sky seven ways from Sunday. What 

AJ^D ALSO . . . 

Chopin: Piano Concerto in E minor. 

Maurizio Pollini and Philharmonia Or- 
chestra conducted l)y Paul Klctzki 
(Capitol G 7241, mono; SG 7241, stereo). 
Pollini is the winner of the 1960 
Chopin Competition in Warsaw. He 
plays the Chopin E minor with an un- 
usually finished style, technique to spare, 
and a good deal f)f strength. Tonally he 
is a little hleak, Ini h" is always a fine 
musician and a hiilliaiil pianist. 

Liszt: Piano Musif. Ivan Davis, pianf) 
(Colurnhia MI. .')022, mr)no; MS 0222. 

In addition if> the Mephislo Waltz, 

Funerailles, and Hungarian Rhapsody 
No. 6, Davis plays a group of shorter 
works. He handles the music with flair, 
sweep, and a fine understanding of its 
extroverted style. The young American 
is a convincing Liszt pianist. 

Faure: La Bonne Chanson; Poeme d'un 
jour; Eight .songs. Gerard Souzay. bari- 
tone, accompanied l)y Danton Baldwin 
(Ir-pic LC 3704. mono; BC 1122, stereo). 
Some of the most hiautiful songs in 
the literature are on this disc. .Souzay 
handles this excjuisiie nnisic with taste 
and knowledge, A fine artist, and a fine 


naturally happens is that virtuoso; 
conductors have a field day with \ht\ 
scoring. (It is an open secret around 
New York that Stravinsky was very 
unhappy with Leonard Bernstein's 
approach to the score; and one of 
the reasons he wanted to make this 
recording was that he was very anx- 
ious to leave a permanent record of 
how he thought the music really 
should sound.) 

Stravinsky does not make nearly 
as much of the coloristic elements in 
these two scores as nearly all other 
conductors do. For many years- 
since early in his career, indeed— he 
has been declaiming against over- 
interpretation. Time and time again,^ 
he has said that his music needs nc 
"interpretation." Just follow the 
notes. And that is what he doe$ 
here. His concepts are complete 
and even startlingly, antiromantS 
'It is not that color is missing, foi 
plenty is present. But color is not 
the important thing. Much more im 
portant are the clear, sec sound h< 
gets; the jauntiness of the phrasing 
the almost classical primness. T< 
ears attuned to the orthodox way o 
conducting Sacre and Petrouchka 
Stravinsky's own performance migh 
sound uninteresting. But that is th 
way he wants it. And, as the con- 
poser, presumably his ideas are d< 
finitive. The chances are that fe^ 
conductors will fall in line. Th 
chances also are that future condui 
tors, studying these recordings, wi 
use them as a guide. In short, Str 
vinsky is in the fortunate position ( 
being able to make his own trad| 
tion. I 

The same, of course, goes for ai 
composer active today. Francis Pot 
enc is one. Ever since the 1930s 1 
has been active in recordings, gene 
ally as a pianist in his own mtisi 
Unlike Stravinsky, he has done litt 
conducting. But naturally he h 
worked closely with the conducto 
and musicians of his recordings. Tl 
new recording of his most rece 
work, the Gloria for soprano, cho 
and orchestra, was made under 1 
supervision. Rosanna Carteri is tl 
soprano, and Georges Prctre lea 
the French Radio and Tclevisii 
Orchestra and Chorus. The disc a) 
contains the Concerto for Orga 
Strings, and Tinij);iiii, with Mauri 
Diuuflc:' at the oigan (Angel 359! 
mono; S 35953, stereo). 








Poulenc's Gloria had its world 
premiere in Boston earlier this year. 
It is a lovely work in the distinctive 
Ponlenc idiom, which means that it 
is conservative, melodic, yet in some 
indescribable way up-to-date. Poul- 
tnc manages to work in traditional 
larmony and somehow sound mod- 
-rn. The Gloria consists of six sec- 
ions, two of which are soprano solos 
and the soprano also makes a brief 
.'ntry in ihe fnial chorus). Many ele- 
nents appear throughout the work: 

renaissance type of writing at the 
pening; some Stravinsky (notably 
n the Laudamiis te), some almost 
azzy musical-hall recollections that 
ate to the Poulenc of the 'twenties, 
nd some pure Poulenc, especially 
n the two solos. Those solos are as 
ovely and songful as any of his 
ongs, which is saying a great deal, 
or Poidenc probably is the greatest 
ong writer since Faure. 

As always, ilie score is tlie work of 

thorough professional. Construc- 
ion, choral writing, solo work, or- 
hestration— all are the work of a 
naster. The Gloria is a hard work 
o resist, and one suspects that it will 
)e a permanent addition to the 
epertory. It receives what must be 
n authoritative performance, with 
le composer in charge of the ses- 
ions. Carter! sings her arias beauti- 
ully, though without the haunting 
•urity that Adele Addison presented 
/hen she sang the work in New York 
:ist season. 

The Concerto for Organ, Strings, 
nd Timpani is one of Poulenc's 
eo-classic works, with Bach-like 
ourishes and a suggestion of eight- 
enth-century techniques. But as in 
11 neo-classic music, this is the eight- 
enth century seen through very 
lodern eyes. Poulenc goes in for an 
stinato type of writing, and the 
lain theme of the work (it recurs 
iroughout the score) is a repetitive 
Jbject that is hypnotic and hard to 
et out of the memory once the work 

over. This is one of Poulenc's best 
ieces of music, polished and urbane, 
jphisticated and fluent. The per- 
)rmance on this disc is hampered 
y the organ that Durufle uses. It is 

heavy-sounding, over-resonant in- 
rument, and it tends to swamp the 
rings in a wallow of thick tone, 
urely Poulenc must have had a 
ghter, baroque-like instrument in 



Eric Larrabee 


Surely it is a sign of adulthood in an 
art form when it begins to develop 
the ability to laugh at itself. The very 
existence of parody presupposes a num- 
ber of styles so different as to be rec- 
ognizable by the lay public, and of 
competence so widespread that the 
young and disrespectful may be found 
who have the capacity— as well as the 
inclination— to taunt the Masters. 

In jazz such talents have long existed, 
but not often for public consumption. 
Tliey have been among the few remain- 
ing private pleasures of the musicians, 
for delectation among themselves, so 
that— for example— it may still be a mat- 
ter of dispute whetlicr in the Charlie 
Parker recording session of November 
26, 1045, the trumpet is Miles Davis, or 
Dizzy Gillespie imitating Miles. These 
delights are now publicly availai)le. 

Argo has recently brought out a record 
called "Morris Grants Presents J.U.N.K." 
— Jazz University's New Kicks— in which 
a handful of anonymous musicians and 
a supply of canned applause arc used to 
simulate an entire jazz festival. The 
artists being parodied appear mostly 
under the name of Morris, and they in- 
clude Morris Brewbeck, Morris Garner, 
Ornctte Morris, and Miles Morris as 
well as Merry Julligan and Theloneliest 
Plunk. The humor of the liner notes is 
on about the same level, but that of the 
record inside is far more sophisticated. 

Perhaps I am unduly sympathetic, but 
to me this sort of legitimate fun in jazz 
comes as a great relief. The normal 
emotional atmosphere of the jazz world 
is one of ferocity slightly tempered by 
paranoia, with the result that the im- 
pulse to satirize seems by comparison to 
be essentially kindly. I cannot help feel- 
ing that the musicians who made the 
.Argo record were having a good time 
doing it, and that only out of some 
affection and respect for one of the 
Greats can he be successfully mimicked. 

Not to prolong their anonymity, the 
men involved are as follows: trumpet. 
Doc Sevirinsen; drums, Don Lainond; 
bass. Trigger .Altert: piano, Bernie 
Leighton: saxes and some piano solos, 
Jordan Ramin, who also had the original 
idea and saw it through to production. 
Mr. Ramin reports that the reaction he 
has so far had from the trade has not 
been generous, so that the answer to the 
question, "Is jazz ready for satire?" is 
still— not yet. 

Morris Grants Presents J.U.N.K. Argo 
LP 4006. 



Profile of the young cartoonist 
who has made nonconformity a 
popular product for the mass mar= 

By Julius Novick 


What they want, where they dis- 
agree, where the power lies, and 
what they are hkely to do. 

By Hohart Rowen 


The co-author of "The Ugly 
American" reports on the strange 
— and horrifying — nature of primi- 
tive inan in the Australian bush. 

By Eugene Burdick 



How our "housing experts" un- 
wittingly encourage crime. 

By Jane Jacobs 


A new story by Leo Rosten. 

The ANGEL RECORD CLUB invites you to enjoy these high fidelity 



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□ Cherle here If you own a 
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MOM' V. 
.1 riiii, 
1 It, j<,i( 

'A« will 
• f Cniiu'ln, 
I thniuuti 

lilll yiHi 
I IH4 C'uxu 
Mill hi* niililv 

I M.I It 


.1 Ml, Ol' 

III mnrlfli 

S705. lOlUIPOPS. Sir Thomas 
Beecharti conducts 8 delight- 
ful "musical sweet-meats" 
by Berlioz. Debussy, Mozart, 
others $4,9B; Stereo $5,98. 

TIONS. The Berlin Philhar. 
monir plays Tannhauser, The 
Flying Dutchman, Gotterdam- 
merung. $4.98. 


NO. 4. His final symphony, 
iii.iyed by the Philharmonia 
Ml' hestra, conducted by 
Hi iberl Von Karaian $4,98. 

S731. Sibelius: SYMPHONY 

NO, 2, Powerfully played by 

thi- Philharmonia Orchestra, 

Paul Kietzki conducting. 

$4.98; Stereo $5.98. 

S733 ProkOfieY: SYMPHONY 
NO 5. A stunning rendition 
'ri A heroic work bv Thomas 
',. h'\i\i^i\ with Pt^ilnar monic 
'jnh $4 98, Stereo $5.98. 

'.114 TchJIkOKiky: SYM. 
i-HONV NO 4 A superb per- 
I'irmanre by Constantin Sil- 
ii*'.lri and Ihe Philharmonia 
or h $4.98i Sleroo $5.98. 

737. Khatchaturian: VIOLIN 
CONCERTO. Oavid Oistrakh 
plays, the composer con- 
ducts, in a dazzling, unfor- 
gettable performance. $4.98. 

S738. Beethoven: PIANO 
CONCERTO NO. 4. Russia's 
famed Emil Gilels is soloist 
with the f'hilharmonia Orch. 
$4.98; Stereo $5.98. 

5740. Tchaikovsky: VIOLIN 
CONCERTO: Mendelssohn: 
Ferraswith the Philharmonia 
Orch $4.98; Stereo $5.98. 

5741. Prokofiev: CINDER- 
ELLA. The ballet's enchant- 
ing music Robert Irving 
conducts the Royal Philhar- 
monic $4.98; Stereo $5.98. 

743. Stravinsky: PETROUCH- 
KA. The complete score of 
the famous ballet. Efrem 
Kurtz conducts the Philhar- 
monia Orchestra. $4.98. 
745. Chopin: 8 MAZURKAS: 
3 POLONAISES. Witold Mal. 
ruzynsKi at the piano in 
fiery renditions of 11 nota- 
ble works. $4.98. 

pieces, best-loved and little- 
known, with George Trovillo 
on piano. $4.98. 

The Philharmonia under 
Vienna-born Henry Knps 
plays 6 scintillating waltzes. 

$4.98; Storeo $5.98. 


The Vienna Philharmonic un- 
der Silvestri plays rhapso- 
dies by Liszt, Ravel, Enesco, 
$4.98; Stereo $5.98. 

SIC. Hear the unique Alphorn. 
yodeling, other vocals and 
instrumentals in 21 cheerful 
folk tunes. $3.98. 

Dino Oliveri conducts 
Venetian music aglitter with 
romantic violins and man- 
dolins $3.9B. 
S7S2. RUSSKAYA! The Holly 
viood Bowl Symphony in 
rousinK music by 
Glmk.l, Rimsky KorsJko^ 
others $4.98; Stereo $5.98. 

HA 2 

^o matter what the weather, speed or altitude, an IBM navigational computer system now being developed 
Mill let the pilot see his position on a moving map. His air speed is 1,500 mph, his altimeter 50,000 feet. Below 
him lies the earth totally obscured by cloud cover, and above, the darkness of outer space. Yet the pilot can see where 
he is and where he's going. How? ■ A small glass hemisphere carries a detailed map of half the earth and is tied 
into the plane's computer, A beam of light illuminates a small section of this hemisphere and projects it onto a 
screen in front of the pilot. In flight, the computer rotates the hemisphere, correlating it exactly with the plane's 
supersonic progress and the rotating earth. ■ To develop this system, IBM engineers came up with a new technique 
for depositing the map image on glass. In discovering it, they established principles that may be followed in space 
navigation as well — using a star map instead of an earth map. By exploring new methods of collection, processing and 
communication of data, IBM is uncovering many new solutions to problems of business and science. 


lew electronic map will show the pilot where in the world he is 







Bottled in Bond 

and mellow 86 Proof 

both original and 

genuine distillery-bottled 








^Ot^ MED4^ 

[Ha I 


^'^ t 


" ^^ I fiUl W ^^T KENTUCKY 

WHISKEY 1 1* '"'^^^0 AND .oTuecj;^, 


m) ANl> BOITI'^' '' 

VlUf • kinmk 

1 i:i» 

Today's I.W. Harper bottles stand between "Companion" Long-Necked decanter, 1910, and "Dandy" Pinch Bottle, 1900. 

I. W. Harper Bottled in Bond has all the rich 

authority of a fine 100 Proof Bourbon. The mellow 

86 Proof side of the family is agreeably light 

and engaging. Both are the same original and genuine 

Prized Kentucky Bourbon ... distilled 

and bottled at the I. W. Harper distillery. 




roimoi I' Ml mbc(; 



k* It 


sirriMBiii 1961 

Sixty cints 


/hat they want... 
/here they disagree... 
/here the power lies... 

















JOHX HU \'l ER—louudri of Scicntijic Surgery— one of a series 
of original oil paintings commissioned by Parke-Daiis. 

When John Hunter was born, in 1728, surgery was 
considered menial work, ^'et, in combining great 
natural talent, insatial^le curiosity, and keen obser- 
vation, the Sr ottish-ijorn Hunter became the greatest 
British comjjarative anatomist ol his time and ^\as 
honored posthumously as "The Founder ol Scientific 
Surgery." His famous anatomical collection, includ- 
ing skeletons ol die iiow-extin( t Great Auk and ol die 
Irish Giant, numbered 1^5,082 spet imcns at his deadi. 
The (hsiic lo biiiig older f>iit ol diaos, ;nid to extend 
the realm ol human endea\f», is moli\aiion lor uio"^- 

1 o 

ress in all pliases ol medic ine, surgei y. and su])j)ortive 
fields ol treatment. Kadi new day\ progress brings 
patients better and better chances ol lull ieco\er\. 
\\here\er ilicx li\e in the woi Id and \\hale\er their 
illness cjr disease may be. 

Parke-Davis, woi king with and lor physic ians around 
the Avorld in the struggle loi better health, is con- 
stantly endea\c>iing to im])ic)\t' medicines. When 
presciibc-d bv \f)ur pinsician and dis|)ensed by ycnn 
phannac isi, these medic ines olien help lo make youi' 
li(;ddi belter and vcnu lile Icjiigci and liclui. 



I'ifnircrs in hellrr iiiedif inrs 


RECORD ATTENDANCE. Nearly 19,000 share owners attended the 1961 annual meeting of A. T. & T, This was the largest 
attendance ever recorded by any business. There was full and free discussion of many matters— evidence of democracy at work. 

Now. .. 2,000,000 Bell Telephone Share Owners 


The ownership of the country's 
largest business by over two million 
people is a dramatic testimonial to 
the American economic system. Here, 
for all the world to see, is democracy 
at work. 

The result is a communications 
service of increasing value to both 
the public and business and a vital 
element in national defense. 

The owners of American Telephone 
and Telegraph Company stock are 
people in all walks of life, in every 
section of the country. 

A great many are small share own- 
ers. About 290,000 own fewer than 
ten shares. 42% are women. An ad- 
ditional 3 1 % are joint accounts, gen- 
erally in the names of husband and 
wife. More than 300,000 are tele- 
phone employees. 

In addition to the direct owners, 
many millions of other people have an 
important, beneficial interest through 
the holdings of their insurance com- 
panies, pension funds, investment 
companies, unions, savings banks, etc. 

Without the money that A. T. & T. 

share owners have put in the business, 
you could not possibly have the tele- 
phone service you enjoy today. Nor 
would there be work and wages for 
over 730,000 employees. 

This year alone share owners have 
furnished $961,000,000 in new capi- 
tal by subscribing to A. T. & T. stock. 

Given the opportunity to plan 
boldly for the future— and with earn- 
ings on a level that makes such prog- 
ress possible— you can be sure that we 
will make further contributions to the 
growth and security of the nation. 



Chairman of the Executive 
Committee: cass canfield 

Chairman of the Board: 



Executive Vice President: 


Vice Presidents: 




Treasurer: LOUis F. haynie 





VOL. 223, NO. 1336 



Editor in Chief: JOHN fischer 

Managing Editor: russell lynes 

Publisher: JOHN jay hughes 







Contributing Editor: 


Editorial Secretary: rose daly 
Editorial Assistant: 




247 Park Ave., New York 17, N. Y. 

Telephone YUkon 6-3344 

Production Manager: KIM SMITH 

49 East 33rd St., New York 16, N. Y. 
Telephone MUrray Hill 3-1900 


© 1961 by Harper & Brothers. 

All rights, including translation into 

other languages, reserved by the 

Publisher in the United States, Great 

Britain, Mexico, and all countries 

participating in the Universal 

Copyright Convention, the International 

Copyriglu Cc;nvention, and the 

Pan-American Copyright Convention. 

Published monthly by Harper & Brothers. 

49 East 33rd St., New York 16, N. Y. 

Composed and printed in the U.S.A. 

by union labor by the Williams Press, 

99-129 North Broadway, Albany, N. Y. 

Second class postage paid 

at Albany, N. Y. and New York, N. Y. 

SUBSCRIPTION RATES: 6()( per copy; 

$6.00 one year; $11.00 two years; 

$15.00 three years. Foreign postage — 

except Canada and Pan America — 

$1.50 per year additional. 


advance notiLC, and old address as 

well as new, are necessary. 

Address all tiirrcspondencc relating 

to subscriptions Id: Subscription Dcpl., 

49 East 13rd St., New York 16, N. Y. 



25 Kennedy's Economists, Hobart Rowen 

33 On Both Your R-ouses, Sylvia Wright 

37 Violence in the City Streets, Jane Jacobs 

58 Jules Feiffer and the Almost-In-Group, Julius X(n>ick 

63 The Peace Corps' Secret Mission, Benjamin DcMott 

69 The Invisible Aborigine, Eugene Burdick 

77 Why We Don't Wipe Out Polio, Leonard En gel 

81 Canada's Luxury Ghost Town, Fred Bodsxv-orth 


48 Mr. Future, Leo Rosten 


44 Seven Poems by Boris Pasternak, Robert Loioell 
67 The Husking, Dilys Laing 
80 The Thread, Dcnise Lever tov 


4 Letters 

10 The Editor's Easy Chair— money bait. ]<)Jtn Fische^ 
21 After Hours— monk talk, Robert Kotlowitz 

92 Public & Personal— twelve at the table, 

William S. White 

96 The New Books, Irving Kristol 

101 Books in Brief, Kathrrine (iauss Jackson 

104 Music in the Round, Discus 

105 Jazz Notes, Eric Larrabee 

ARiisrs: CJovcr, );iiu'i I lalvcrson; 21, N. M. Hodctkcr: 33 
Uiirmah Burris; -ll. Papin; 18. Nonna-Jcan Roplin. 
This issue is published in luilional and spednl rdiliDii.s. 



Just for self-appraisal: CHECK THOSE YOU FUllY INTENDED 


WD nit 






STONn. (Retail 
price $5.95) 


F. KENNAN. (Re- 
tail price $5.75) 


National Book Award 
For Non-Fiction 

431. THE RISE 

(Ret.iil price $10) 



GINLEY. (Retail 
price $5 ) 

Puliti«r Priie 
For Fiction 

435. TO KILL A 


(Reta il price 





[ IS the: 

i IVoliles 



463. THE EDGE 


(Retail price $5) 

186. HAWAII by 


ENER. (Retail 
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452. CHINA 
COURT by rumer 
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NEDY. (Retail 
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IS9D ffer^-D 

472. THE MOST 
HOUSE by P. G. 
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NILE ;§ 


lustrated. (Retail 
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ORY. Illustrated 
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Illustrated. (Re- 
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lustrated. (Retail 
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Prairie Years AND 
The War Years 


1 -vol . edition 




Tf YOUR SELF-CHECK rcvcals that you have 
been missing the books you promise 
yourself to read because of irritating over- 
busyness, there is a simple way to break 
this bad habit: membership in the Book-of- 
the-Month Club-. During the coming year, at 
; least 200 books will be made available to 
: members. The members' prices for these 
Club choices are, on the average, 20% below 
the publishers' regular retail prices. (For ex- 
ample, the members' price for J/je Hise and 
Tall of the Third Tleich, which retails for $10, 
is only $5.95— a saving of over 40%.) 

5|c Your only obligation in the trial mem- 
bership suggested here is to buy as few as 

three of these 200 books, in addition to the 
three you choose from this page. The latter 
will be sent to you immediately, and you will 
be billed one dollar for each of them (plus a 
small charge for postage and handling). 

^ If you continue after the trial mem- 
bership, with every second Club choice you 
buy you will receive a valuable Book-Divi- 
dend averaging more than $7 in retail value. 
Since the inauguration of this profit-sharing 
plan, $255,000,000 worth of books (retail 
value) has been earned and received by 
Club members as Book-Dividends. Isn't it 
good sense, for the year ahead, at least to 
make this trial, and get back into the habit 
of book reading? 

457. RING OF 

WELL. Illustrated 
(Retail price $5) 

451. A BURNT. 


(Retail price 

454. THE LAST 


BART. (Retail 
price $4.95) 


STATLER. Illus- 
trated. (Retail 
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104. ADVISE 


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467. THE MAK< 
IDENT — 1960 by 


WHITE. (Retail 
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Book-of-the-Month Club 

« . . if you agree fo buy as few as three 

additional books from the Club during 

the coming year 


345 Hudson Street, New York 14, N. Y. 

Please enroll me as a member of the Book-of-the- 
Month Club* and send the three books whose num- 
bers I have indicated in boxes below, blUingr mc 
$3.00 (plus postage and handling). I agree to pur- 
chase at least three additional monthly Selections or 

alternates — during the first year I am a member. I 
have the right to cancel my membership any time 
after buying three Club choices (In addition to those 
included in this Introductory offer) . The price will 
never be more than the publisher's price, and fre- 
quently less. After my third purchase. If X continue. 
I am to receive a Book-Dividend* with every second 

Selection or alternate 1 buy. (A small charge Is 

added to cover postage and maliing expenses.) PLEASE 

NOTE: A Double Selection or a set of books offered 

to members at a special combined price — Is counted as 
a single book In reckoning Book-Dividend credit and In 
fulfilling the membership obligation to buy three 
Club choices. 





ss ) 

(Please print plainly) 

City Zone State 

Selections and alternates for Canadian members are usu- 
ally priced slightly (lighcr, are shipped from Toronto duty 
free, and may be paid for in either U.S. or Canadian 

^Trademark Reg, U, S, Pat, Off. and in Canada 





You'll never find di gentler %zo\.q\\ than 
Bell's. Yet its taste has real authority. 
Bell's "12" (Royal Vat) Mellowed 
lor twelve years in the wood, it has 
reached the age of greatness. 
Bell's Special Reserve An excep- 
tional Scotch at a popular price. Just 
as light as Bell's "12"-and its equal 
in everything but years. 



Volcano Erupts 

To THE Editors: 

Miriam Borgenicht's explosion 
["Teachers College: An Extinct Vol- 
cano?" July] makes only one valid point 
about the institution: not all of TC's 
students measure up to the highest 
standards of scholarship. 

Mrs. Borgenicht contends that the 
emphasis and preponderance of courses 
at TC are in the area of methods. A 
quick glance at the College's Catalogue 
demolishes this statement. The Depart- 
ment of the Teaching of Social Studies, 
in which I myself am enrolled as a grad- 
uate student, offers nine methods 
courses and about thirty content 
courses. . . . 

Mrs. Borgenicht is almost audacious 
when she writes "one book per semester" 
as being indicative of the general stand- 
ards at TC. I have recently completed 
two courses in which no less than three 
texts were required reading in each 
course. Furthermore, there were "sug- 
gested" reading lists and reading for 
term papers. . . . There are students 
here at Teachers College who are very 
much convinced that it is still the citadel 
of what is best in American teachers and 

Irving J. Sloan 
New York, N. Y. 

Miriam Borgenicht's article surely 
reached many sympathetic ears. I earned 
a teaching certificate at a southwestern 
university. . . . During my eight weeks 
of practice teaching ... I learned more 
than in all my Education courses put to- 
gether. Yet, this teaching was done 
under only one teacher who had al- 
ready structured the class and estab- 
lished discipline in a university school 
with selective admission. On my first 
day of teaching in a public school, I was 
faced with illiterate students and honor 
students, unruly ones and civili/cd ones, 
a dictatorial administration, and ;iii in- 
dolent janitor! 

No course could have presolved these 
problems. Much depends on the initi- 
ative and creativity of the 
teacher. Perhaps, however, a system of 
graduated apprenticeship under difler- 
cnl teachers would have armed me with 
more of a fortified and iniiiure prcpiired- 
iiess than sb.illow disc ussioiis ol ;iMi;ileur 
psy( ho.iiKilysis usually led by inexperi- 

enced professors with a vested interest 
in an entrenched and empty system. 

Anne Rl'ssell Callen 
Houston, Tex. 

As the author of the oft-quoted 
Teachers College doctoral dissertation, 
"Your Pencil Sharpener, Its Care, Lo- 
cation and Use," 1 would like to re- 
quest that you correct several minor er- 
rors by Miriam Borgenicht: (1) Miriam 
doesn't have the title correct. (2) It 
wasn't a doctoral dissertation. (3) It 
wasn't done at TC. This was a com- 
mercial brochure which I wrote in 19.52 
for the C: Howard Hunt Pen Company 
of Camden, N. J. The publication had 
no connection with TC. . . . 

I would appreciate your correction of 
this error, as a number of my students 
are clamoring to do a follow-up study 
entitled "The Care, Location, and Use 
of Your Pencil Sharpener— During a 
Space Age Economy." 

Prof. Donald J. Lel' 

College of Education 

Michigan State University 

East Lansing, Mich. 

Harp'er's is always glad to rescue an 
author from anonymity.— T/ze Editors 

Religious Revolt 

To THE Editors: 

Miriam Chapin introduces her article, 
"Quebec's Revolt against the Catholic 
Schools" [July], by describing her 
"worldly friend" Martine, who separates 
herself from God and Church by birth 
control and bad confessions. Then Mrs. 
Chapin appears to include this young 
woman among those anti-clericals who 
are "Catholics of good standing who are 
trying to put the laymen in control." I 
doubt that Mrs. Chapin is so naive as to 
believe that any knowledgeable Catholic, 
Canadian or otherwise, will swallow that 
bit of double tnlk: but I want to point 
out to my non-(;aiholic friends the mis- 
leading nature of what she writes. 

Hasn't anyone suggested working Avilh 
and through the clergy instead of against 

DoRoiiiv S. Bkown 
VVinooski. Vt 

Gloomy Playicrifihtf 

To the KniroRs: 

Mary McClarihy is a splendid writer 
and I always enjoy reading hir. I 
thought her piece " 'Realism' in the 

Any 3 Books FREE 



The Affluent Society, 

John Kenneth 
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The Greek Myths, 
Robert Graves. One 
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% |U'"' * 

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A History of Western 
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Images of Man: The 
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America as a Civiliza- 
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Identity and Anxiety: Survival of the 
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The Odyssey: 
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SELECTIONS MAKE THE DIFFERENCE! Here are some of the selections that the Book Find 
Club has offered its members at substantial savings. The selections of the Book Find Club 
are different. You will recognize them as works of current interest and lasting value-solid, 
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able to you as a member if you join now. As an introductory offer, to acquaint you with the 
benefits and privileges of membership, we invite you to choose any three of the selections 
pictured above free with your first selection. Since several are dual selections*, you may 
acquire as many as 7 books in this way. 

CONVENIENCE. Membership in the Book Find Club makes it possible for you to shop for 
the books you want in the comfort of your own home— enabling you to build your library con- 
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available at special member's prices. You need choose only the books you want. 

AVERAGE SAVINGS OF 40%. As a member you will regularly enjoy savings of 40% on the 
books you take. Furthermore, on certain choices your savings will reach and even exceed 50%. 
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BONUS BOOKS. When your initial commitment has been fulfilled, you will be entitled to a 
free bonus book of your own choosing after every third selection that you take. 

^ Two books counting as one selection 


215 Park Avenue South, New York 3, N. Y. 

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(plus postage and handling). I agree to buy at least four additional selections- 
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third selection that I take. I am to receive each month without charge the Book 
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First Selection . 

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Zone . . . 

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.\cl(Jress: 103 Bond St . Toronto 2. Ontario) 




^^kat lied beyond 
the fretted arckwayl 

^Tx5alk through the archway 
and you may find a bazaar riot- 
ous with the colors of many- 
hued flowers, of golden fruit 
and gleaming silks. A few steps 
may bring you close to a sculp- 
tured temple, centuries old yet 
miraculously intact. 

Eeturning in the jasmine- 
scented dusk you may find that 
the fairy-tale palace with its 
soft lights is really your hotel, 
its interior superbly modern in 
every detail. 

Walk through the archway your imagination today... 
in reality tomorrow. For all 
the wonders of India lie only 
17 hours away by air. As a fas- 
cinating preview, ask for pro- 
fusely illustrated 156-page 
book on India. Write Dept. H 

Govt. oi^ndiCi Tourist Office 

New York: 19 E. 49th St. 

San Francisco: 685 Market St. 

Toronto: 177 King St. 

Your travel agent will guide you. 

Anurican Theatre" [July] a very good 
(UK' indeed, but Miss McCarthy seems 
( ui lously disappointed with our realistic 
drama. I quite agree that there is little 

iKianitude to American realism, but I'm 
not sure that is anything to be unhappy 
:il)(mt. Realism isn't a very noble dra- 
iii:iiic style since it defies good language 

iikI disavows really dimensional 
lii'iught. I think the ineffectiveness 
' i )ur realistic drama might even speak 
>\ ell of us. Whatever the case, it was a 

rst-rate article. 

Paddy Chayefsky 
NcTv York, N. Y. 

I found Miss McCarthy's criticism in- 
teresting and provocative. It seems to 
me, however, that she had to torture fact 
and logic a bit in order to nail our pres- 
ent theatre in the coffin she constructs. 
Indeed Miss McCarthy displays a gen- 
eral bias against the drama. This is 
demonstrated in her attempt to belittle 
the drama by showing how it "feeds on 
the novel." Certainly she is aware that 
the drama was alreadv long mature be- 
fore the upstart novel appeared on the 
literary scene. Did the theatre go hungry 
all those centuries before? 

Ivan B. Gluckman 
Philadelphia, Pa. 

The Benefactor 

To THE Editors: 

I wonder if government subsidies and 
government-sponsored scholarships will 
ever be able to replace the type of help 
and inspiration provided by such men 
as William E. Hinds ["The Search for 
William E. Hinds," by Walter Prescott 
Webb, July]. I wonder if the supply of 
country boys waiting to be inspired is 
becoming exhausted. If it is, our coun- 
try is doomed. It is hoped that Profes- 
sor Webb finds a lot of others who have 
been helped by Mr. Hinds and that 
Harper's will give us a report on the 

Harold E. Simon, M.D. 
Birmingham, Ala. 

Unwelcome Old Junior 

To THE Editors: 

The description of the majority of 
America's young adults by William S. 
White ["Old Junior's Progress," Public 
K: Personal, July] is so accurate that the 
picture oi our future is frightening. 
What has happened to our education 
system that wc have produced a genera- 
lion of rude "know-alls" who display 
(onleinpi ;m(l disrespect for the iniclH- 
gentsia? As Mr. White pointed oiit, a 
boy slu)ul(l be a man at twenty one but 
fhis is a char.u reristic most Airicrican 

males have lost. Why are European 
countries successful in distilling this de- 
sired quality when America is failing so 
miserably? Is there an answer? Or 
will this dilemma result in the few in- 
dividuals slowly joining ranks with the 
Parent-State- Federal-supported Juniors? 

D. Carson 
New Orleans, La. 

I finished reading William S. White's 
article on the new American male and 
hoo boy— he described our son ex- 
actly! . . . 

I can hardly wait for Daddy to come 
home from the office. After he reads 
Mr. White's article we are going to sit 
down and say to our big, strong, hairy- 
chested, lazy, handsome, mannerly ap- 
prentice bum of a son, "Sonny," (we 
still call him that— he's just a babe of 
twenty) "now that you are going into the 
Air Force we have a message for you. 
Yoli are exiting from the lollipop ex- 
press; you are being evicted from the 
gravy train. If you marry that wonder- 
fully sweet woman you've been leaning 
on for two years you'd better make sure 
you can get a job at the filling station— 
she is a disciplined person and can -al- 
ways teach school— because Daddy is go- 
ing to have a vacation, selfish as it 
sounds, and Mommy is going along." 

I hope to God he's too young to have 
a stroke. 

Name Withheld 

Latin Plan 

To the Editors: 

In the light of this country's recent 
faux pas in Cuba, Peter F. Drucker's "A 
Plan for Revolution in Latin America" 
[July] seemed sensible and rational. I 
hope that President Kennedy will read 
it carefully before green-lighting any 
more idiotic Putsches. . . . 

Lloyd Wilkie 
Canoga Park, Calif. 

Peter F. Drucker's piece on Latin 
America is an excellent treatment of the 
problem, in that it helps to clarify what 
we can and cannot reasonably do with 
regard to the situation in that region. 

Mike Mansfield 

U. S. Senate, Montana 

Washington, D. C. 

The World Needs Books 

To THE Editors: 

You were kind enough to mention 
this Training Clollege as one of the in- 
stitutions needing Iil)r.iry l)ooks [in "The 
New Africa," by Adlai Steven.son, May 
HKiO]. Not only have many people in 
the States and in Canada sent us books, 




Sluafcesp eare 

EVERY word Shakespeare wrote — every com- 
edy, tragedy, and historical plaj'; every 
poem and sonnet — yours complete in this 
beautiful 1312-page volume. Chuckle at the 
comedy of Falstaff ; be fascinated by Cleopatra; 
thrill with Romeo in the ecstasies of love. Here 
is the writer who understood human nature aa 
no other ever has! 



HERE is another titan of the Elizabethan era 
— - Sir Francis Bacon, whose surpassing 
intellect laid the groundwork of science and 
philosophy for generations. Anyone in search of 
personal guidance can do no better than to read 
these immortal essays . . . about love, politics, 
books, business, friendship, and the many other 
subjects which Bacon discusses so wisely. 



You will be spellbound bj^ Paraiiise Lost — the 
supreme achievement of the blind poet who 
fought for man's right to think. Or, in a gayer 
spirit, you will enjoy "tripping the light fan- 
tastic" with L' Allegro. Or again, perhaps, the 
dreamy meditation of the beautiful // Pense- 
roso will best suit your mood. With this hand- 
some volume at hand, you may choose from 
tjiirty of Milton's matchless poems. 

Why The Classics Club Offers You This Superb Value 

VTlTiLL YOU ADD these three volumes to your 
' ' library — as an introductory offer made 
only to new members of The Classics Club? 
You are invited to join today . . . and to 
receive on approval beautiful editions of the 
world's greatest masterpieces. 

These books, selected unanimously by dis- 
tinguished literary authorities, were chosen 
because they offer the greatest enjoyment 
and value to the "pressed for time" men and 
women o( today. 

Vlhy Are Great Books Called "Classics"? 

A true "classic" is a book that will never 
grow old. For sheer fascination it can rival 
the most thrilling modern novel. Have you 
ever wondered how the great books have 
become "classics"? First, because they are 
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been read unless they were interesting. To 
be interesting they had to be easy to un- 
derstand. And those are the very qualities 
which characterize these selections: read- 
ability, interest, simplicity. 

Only Book Club of Its Kind 

The Classics Club is different from all 
other book clubs. 1. It distributes to its mem- 
bers the world's classics at a low price. 2. Its 
members are not obligated to take any spe- 
cific number of books. 3. Its volumes are 
luxurious De Luxe Editions — bound in the 
fine buckram ordinarily used for $5 and SIO 
bindings. They have tinted page tops; are 
richly stamped in genuine gold — books you 
and your children will cherish for years. 

A Trial Membership Invitation to You 

You are invited to accept a Trial Member- 
ship. With your first books will be sent an 
advance notice about future selections. You 
may reject any book you do not wish. You 
need not take any specific number of books 
— only the ones you want. No money in 
advance, no membership fees. You may 
cancel membership at any time. 

Mail this Invitation Form now. The low 
introductory price for these THREE beauti- 
ful volumes cannot be assured unless you 
respond promptly. THE CLASSICS CLUB, 
Roslyn, L. I., New York. 


Roslyn, L. I., New York 

Please enroll me as a Trial Member and send 
me the THREE beautiful Classics Club lOdi- 


above which I may keep for only si.oo plus a 
few cents mailins charges — the spechil new- 
memhor introductory price for ALL THU1;k 
volumes. If not completely satisfied after seven 
days' examination. I may return all 3 books 
and owe nothing. 

.\s a member, lam not obligated to take any 
specific number of books, and I am to rrceive 
an advance description of future selections. 
.Mso. I may reject any volume before or after I 
receive it. and I may cancel my membership 
whenever I wish. 

For each future Club volume I decide to keep 
I will send you the low price of 82.89 plus a few 
cents mailing charges. (Hooks shipped in U.S.A. 

f Mre. 1 
\ Miss ) 

(Please Print Plainly) 


Zone No. 
City (It any) . . 



^ ^^v^&v W^^^v ^&^^&^ ^^^ ^&v^&v^&v^&v^&v * 

How much life insurance should a man have? Three 
times his annual income? Six times? There's no pat 
answer to fit every case, but there is a way to answer 
the question intelligently ior yourself. It's the "Anala- 
graph", an exclusive service of Mutual Benefit Life 
— designed to help you determine whether you have too 
little or too much life insurance. Write us for further 
information about the **Analagraph". 

Benefit is our middle name 



To protect your future pleasure. 
Let us call a spade a spade. 

Just "imported"on some treasure 
Doesn't tell you where it's made! 

The finest woollens come from Britain. 
When buying clothes look for the name 

Fobrici Forever in Fathion 
6 East 45th Street, New York 17, New York 


$9,000 A YEAR 

So I Sent $7 to 
The Wall Street Journal 

High prices and taxes were getting me 
down. I had to have more money or re- 
duce my standard of living. 

So I sent $7 for a Trial Subscription to 
The Wall Street Journal. I heeded its 
warnings. I cashed in on the ideas it 
gave me for increasing my income and 
cutting expenses. I got the money I 
needed. Now I'm slowly forging ahead. 
Believe me, reading The Journal every 
day is a wonderful get-ahead plan. 

This experience is typical. The Journal 
is a wonderful aid to salaried men mak- 
ing $7,500 to $25,000. It is valuable to 
the owner of a small business. It can be 
of priceless benefit to young men who 
want to win advancement. 

The Wall Street Journal has the largest 
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It costs $24 a year, but in order to ac- 
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this offer: You can get a Trial Subscrip- 
tion for 3 months for $7. Just send this 
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Address: The Wall Street Journal, 44 
nroad St., Xiw York 4, N. Y. IIM-V 



but I feel the college is making soiw 
good friends in your country. On bi 
half of the students I do thank you win 
all my heart. 

C. M. Drury, Principa' 

Umtali Teacher Training Schoo 

Sakubva, Southern Rhodesi; 

Schools and reading rooms in undo 
developed countries urgently need booi 
in English— both fiction and nonfictioj 
—to be used for study, not entertain 
ment. Many schools and organizatioB 
have already responded to Hnrfyer's firi 
request— the most recent project vi 
knoAv, of is a collection of more thaj 
100,000 textbooks from Arizona schooli 
You can mail books to: 

Books froim America 
P. O. Box 1960 
Washington, D. C. 


There they will be sorted, packed, ani 
shipped abroad to where they are mcl 
needed. Books from America is not ab! 
to send books marked for specific ii 
dividuals or places.— T/ze Editors 

Who's on First 


To THE Editors: 

That was an excellent article 1 
Marion K. Sanders ["New York Is D' 
ferent," July]. It describes eloquent 
the amazing confusion which permeat 
Democratic politics in New York Ci 
this year. Unfortunately, this confusi( 
among highly respected Democrat 
leaders concentrating on their domes 
house cleaning made it impossible to i 
list an'y of the best among them in 
fusion movement to restore honest a' 
effective administration of our C 
affairs. This, to me, represents confusii 
worse confounded. 

Stanley M. Isaj 

Minority Leac 

The City Coun 

New York, N 

Marion K. Sanders has an acute < 
for political syntax and a Leica-eye I 
the stylistic nuances of urban politi 
Her witty piece will surely find its v 
into the anthologies for political-sciei 
students, to their edification as well 
amusement. I can only rue the fact tl 
fate (or Mrs. Sanders) made of the 
cat candidate, Hal Dinsmore, a politii 
science major. I entertain the hope t 
he was low man in his class or that 
was really an English major travel 
under false colors. 

V. O. Ki Y, 

Prof, of Governm 

Harvard IJnivcr 

Cambridge, M 


your first lesson: "A Suburban Street" 

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Please enroll me in the Paint-It- Yourself 
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n One lesson every other month for a 
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□ One lesson every month for a year at 
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MISS (please print) 


-Zone State- 


I must be perfectly delighted or I may return 
everything unused within 10 days and cancel my 
enrollnu.-it. (Offer good in r.S. A. only) AP-12 



Money Bait 

ALMOST by accident, a new method has 
been discovered for attracting weahh. It 
has never been publicly reported, so far as I 
can find— although one group of financiers is 
now quietly using it in an operation which prom- 
ises to be highly profitable. Apparently they are 
the first to fully understand the formula, and to 
put it to deliberate use. 

Earlier it had been tested successfully in two 
states— Massachusetts and California— but these 
demonstrations Avere inadvertent. Most of the 
people concerned did not quite grasp what was 
happening, or why. This isn't surprising, be- 
cause the demonstrations occurred piecemeal, 
over a period of about fifteen years, without any 
conscious plan. 

Once the formula is widely known, however, 
it should be possible to apply it more quickly in 
at least a dozen other places. The South, Puerto 
Rico, and the Pacific Northwest look like the 
best bets. All of them have one of the two vital 
ingredients, and probably can create the other if 
they really try. The result might well be a sur- 
prisingly rapid rise in new factories, skilled em- 
ployment, and per capita income. In certain 
other states, however, it is never likely to work, 
for reasons to be noted in a moment. 

Our poorer communities have, of course, been 
looking for just such a recipe for generations. 
They have tried many kinds of lures to attract 
new industries. The favorite has been tax con- 
cessions—sometimes, as in the case of Puerto 
Rico, complete tax exemption for as long as 
twenty years. Often they have put up new build- 
ings and offered them at low rent (or none) to 
any factory that would move in. In addition 
they usually have promised cheap labor, and 
some Southern states have hinted loudly that 
newcomers wouldn't have to worry about trouble 
with labf>r unions. 

All too rrcquenlly the catch has proved dis- 
appoiniing. For the kind of industry that will 
snap at sucli bait is hardly worth having. The 
South, for examfjie, succeeded in enticing a good 
many textile mills away trom New England— but 

the industry already was in decline, and its low 
wages certainly have bestowed no crescendo of 
prosperity on the Carolinas or Georgia. 

On the other hand, the exciting growth indus- 
tries—electronics, for instance— aren't interested 
in cheap labor. They need highly skilled men 
and are willing to pay almost any price to get 
them— as anyone can see by glancing at the help- 
wanted ads in Scientific American or the Sunday 
New York Times. Neither are they much inter- 
ested in low taxes, because low taxes mean poor 
schools. Such schools can't turn out the kind of 
brains these industries need; moreover, the men 
they seek aren't willing to settle in communities 
where their children will be doomed to a second- 
rate education. 

In fact, the major growth industries of the 
postwar era— the prizes any ambitious community 
would love to get— differ in six important charac- 
teristics from the old-fashioned industries such 
as steel, textiles, and automobiles: 

1. They mostly produce items of small size but 
great value: transistors, magnetic tape, automa- 
tion-control instruments, micro-bearings, com- 
puters, missile-fuel pumps, pharmaceuticals, 
inertial-guidance systems, to mention a few. 

2. They do not use huge tonnages of raw 
material and fuel. 

3. Consequently they don't have to locate near 
ore bodies or coal mines. Nor are they dependent 
on river transport or rail lines. Indeed so far as 
physical requirements are concerned, they can 
locate practically anywhere they please. 

4. Their plants usually operate without noise, 
smoke, or smell. Therefore they don't blight the 
surrounding neighborhoods as a steel mill or 
paper factory does. On the contrary, these new- 
type factories are often an enhancement to the 
community. The cluster of Johnson & Johnson 
plants near New Brunswick, New Jersey— each a 
handsome specimen of architecture in a campus- 
like setting— is a noteworthy example. 

5. They aren't greatly concerned about unions. 
For one thing, their scientific and other white- 
collar workers are almost impossible to organize. 
For another, wage costs aren't decisive. What is 
decisive is the quality of the product— plus con- 
stant innovation of improved or entirely new 


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items. If a production team can come up with a 
better silicon diode or a more efficient process 
for making antibiotics, management isn't in- 
clined to haggle about salaries. 

6. Their one critical requirement, therefore, is 
brain power. If they hope to stay ahead of the 
competition, they must at all costs attract (and 
hold) really first-rate scientists, technicians, and 

IT is interesting to note the places where such 
industries have, in fact, chosen to locate. Al- 
though some are scattered in many parts of the 
country, they have tended to gravitate toward 
two great concentrations: one in Southern Cali- 
fornia, the other in the Boston area. In the 
latter, they have sprouted thickest along Route 
128— the semicircular expressway built a few 
years ago through what was then open country- 
side to by-pass the traffic-choked metropolitan 
area of Boston. According to Dr. F. Leroy Foster, 
director of the Division of Sponsored Research 
for Massachusetts Institute of Technology, more 
than four hundred plants are now turning out 
electronic components or associated products 
within a twenty-mile radius of the Charles River 
Basin, the center of the area. Virtually all of 
them have been established since the war, and 
most within the last ten years. 

The comparable concentration in Southern 
California covers a wider area, and has been even 
more spectacular in its rate of growth. San 
Diego, for instance, increased its factory employ- 
ment by 54 per cent between 1954 and 1959, 
while Los Angeles reported a 21 per cent gain. 

Why have such plants sprung up in these two 
places— rather than in, say, Arkansas, Mississippi, 
or upstate New York, which need new industry 
much more desperately? Certainly not because 
California and Massachusetts did a better promo- 
tion job or offered bigger tax and wage incen- 
tives; their promotion has been negligible and 
their tax incentives nil. 

By happenstance, however, both areas did offer 
two powerful attractions: 

1. A pleasant environment to live in. 

2. Great universities. 

These often turned out to be the decisive con- 
siderations for a management which was worry- 
ing about the recruitment of key personnel. 

To begin with, many of the people they 
wanted already had their roots down in these 
communities. They were faculty members or 
graduate students at MIT, Harvard, Boston Uni- 
versity, Brandeis, or at Caltcrh, Stanford, or one 
of liie many campuses of the University of Cali- 
fornia. (Indeed such people frequently start a 
factory thcrmsclvcs. MIT alumni have organized 
seventy-five new comjjanies in the Boston area 
since the war. And the firm which cveiiiuaily 
grew into the Raytheon Company was originally 
founded by Dr. Vannevar Bush- wartime director 

of the Office of Scientific Research and Develop- 
ment—and two friends, who wanted to make a 
special kind of thermostat. Raytheon now em- 
ploys 40,000 people— the great majority in 
twenty-five plants near Boston.) 

Moreover, other scientists can easily be per- 
suaded to move to an area which has a complex 
of good universities. There they can keep in 
touch with the research under way in the best 
laboratories. They can consult whenever neces- 
sary with the leading minds in their fields.* 

Above all, they have company. In the eve- 
nings they can visit with friends who share their 
interests and talk their language. And not merely 
with other scientists. These people frequently 
are true intellectuals, with a wide range of inter- 
ests. They like to live in a community of scholars 
—historians, writers, sociologists, even an oc- 
casional artist— and they enjoy being near good 
libraries, good orchestras, good art galleries. If 
you plunked them 'down in Spearfish, South 
Dakota, they would go out of their minds with 
boredom; no amount of money could persuade 
them to stay there. 

Robert S. McNamara is a case in point. A Phi 
Beta Kappa and once an assistant professor at 
Harvard, he is typical of the new breed of cor- 
porate executive. And it is significant that even 
after he became president of the Ford Motor 
Company he continued to live in Ann Arbor— 
thirty-eight miles from his office— because, as 
Time reported, "it is a university town" and he 
had "a liking for the academic life." (Or, to put 
it less tactfully, no intellectual is likely to live in 
Detroit if he can avoid it.) Dr. Bush provides 
another object lesson. After his retirement as 
president of the Carnegie Institution, he returned 
to MIT because he enjoyed "the excitement of 
its intellectual ferment." 

By coincidence, both Southern California and 
the Boston area offered not only intellectual 
ferment but also pleasant places to live. The 
charms of Southern California (for some people, 
anyhow) are well known. And the construction 
of Route 128 made it possible for a man to live 
in the Boston suburbs, or in the rolling, wooded 
hills beyond, and still drive to his plant in a 
few minutes. 

It is no coincidence, of course, that these 
localities also had good schools. Any area that 
abounds in first-rate universities is almost sure 
to have better-than-average primary and second- 
ary schools, both public and private. For almost 

* Dr. Wernhcr von Braun, the rocket scientist, re- 
cently made tlie same point in asking the Alabama 
legislature for money to expand a small research 
center near the state university. "It's not water, or 
real estate, or labor, or power, or cheap taxes which 
brings industry," he said. "It's !)rainp()wer. . . . What 
do yon think attracted the aircraft industry to the 
Los Angeles area? The desert and smog? No, it was 
UCLA [and the other great universities there]." 



[ The passions 
Gthat move men 
to create history. •« 

The 1934 assassination (pictured) of Alexander 1 
of Yugoslavia and French Foreign Minister Louis 
Barthou removed two opponents of Axis ambi- 
tions in Europe — helping to open the way for 
encroachments by Hitler, and hastening the ad- 
vent of World War II. 

For although passions that move men to create 
history may be peculiar to the time and place, 
their consequences are the legacy of us all. Just 
as our hves today are shaped in part by Sir. 
Francis Drake's defeat of the Spanish Armada— 
so is our future now being perceptibly altered by 
the seething aspirations of people in Rhodesia, 
Havana, Laos and Peiping. 

For a meaningful understanding of the present, 
the thoughtful reader seeks new insights in the 
fascinating panorama of the past. To help you 
do so — at substantial savings — we invite you to 
membership in The History Book Club. 

DEATH OF A KING , . . Marseilles, October 9, 1934 (World Wide Photo). 


and WORLD AFFAIRS o'nTv SI each 


r 366. CHARLES SUMNER and The 
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The Potsdam Conference, by 
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our times. Current Pulitzer Prize 
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Peterson. Winner of the latest Ban. 

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by Mark M. Boatner HI. Offered 
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strategy in World War II, as told 
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History of Europe and America, 
1760-1800. by R. R. Palmen 



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TO READERS who wish to sharc in the drama of the eternal 
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Listed here are 23 typical s